El Diablo del Oeste
by Quill N. Inque
Summary: Number Four in my Historical KURTTY Series. In the days of the Wild West, a city girl is attacked and left for dead by bandits before being rescued by an unlikely savior... COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

"_But the West of the old times, with its strong characters, its stern battles and its tremendous stretches of loneliness, can never be blotted from my mind."-Buffalo Bill_

Chapter 1: Left for Dead

_Prologue_

_Wyoming, 1853, three hours ago…_

The teeth-jarring rattle of the stagecoach's wheels made Catherine Pryde's jaw ache as she gently pulled aside the curtains that, despite their intended purpose, did little to block out the heat of the midday sun. Its warm, glowing rays made the skin on her face tingle pleasantly, and her eyes widened in admiration at the scene that lay before her.

_This _was America's last, unspoiled wilderness, one of the few places that remained untamed and wild on a map whose edges were steadily being filled in. The snow-capped mountains jutted skyward, monoliths of granite topped with tiaras of swirling clouds, and their primeval yet regal presence dominated the land for miles around. Uncounted multitudes of trees of every shape and size covered the hills and valleys with their vast, arboreal hordes whilst the air was laden with the fresh scent of pine and oak. The harsh, solitary call of a lonely crow made the skin on Catherine's neck stand upright with its eerie dirge as she pushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes.

This almost alien land, with its glory untouched by man's machinations, was utterly foreign to her. Catherine was a city gal, born and bred in the thriving metropolis of New York, and raised in a house with all the modern conveniences of the day. This primitive environment was certainly far out of her comfort zone, to say the least.

Despite the fact that she dearly wished to be back in the crowded streets and bustling lanes of the city she called home, Catherine knew that this was not an option. The carriage in which she rode was ferrying her to the up-and-coming boomtown of San Francisco, which had exploded following the discovery of gold four years prior. Immigrants from Asia had flooded to the Northwest coast in hopes of employment in the mines, and it was in one such facility that Catherine's parents had invested their savings. As far as she knew, the Pryde quarries were doing quite well under Mother and Father's stewardship, for the venture had already paid back more than twice the family's investment. And unlike many of the greedy money-grubbers who so ruthlessly exploited their immigrant employees, the Prydes had established a reputation for fairness with all who worked under them.

The only drawback was that Catherine's parents rarely, if ever, returned home to see her.

Since she was small, Catherine had been raised by a succession of strict or uncaring nannies and maidservants, each of whom cared more for their wages rather than Catherine's childhood. But now, at the age of eighteen, Mr. and Mrs. Pryde had sent word that she was to join them in San Francisco and leave New York behind. Catherine had jumped with joy at the thought of seeing her parents for the first time in years, and the stage had set out for California that same day.

Now, what seemed like an eternity later, Catherine didn't seem to be making any progress whatsoever. This vast, wild country seemed to stretch on forever, and San Francisco had never seemed so far away. The rough, unpaved road that was little more than a glorified goat trail made the wagon bounce and jounce so badly that Catherine's back began to ache abominably. And though she had been happy and eager to set out on her journey, Catherine now mourned the absence of the creature comforts that she had long been accustomed to.

The driver cracked the reins with a satisfying _snap_, and the stagecoach continued on its way.

But neither driver nor passenger could have expected what happened next.

_CRACK!_

The sound of gunfire echoed deafeningly off of the surrounding mountainside, and the hapless man who had held the reins only moments before slumped over sideways as a bullet penetrated his heart amidst the force of the crash jolted her forward, and from somewhere in the cliffs above a second round shattered one of the wagon's wheels into splinters. The force of the crash jolted her forward, and Catherine's entire world tumbled as the entire structure toppled sideways. The impact was so harsh and that her vision went momentarily gray, and Catherine's blood pounded in her ears as the horses whinnied in panic. But even in such a disoriented stated, the young woman felt her blood run cold at the sound of the bandits' wild yells.

Catherine felt her heart thunder in her chest as the outlaws surrounded her, and she tried to make herself small as the brigands plundered the carriage of everything they thought worth taking. Catherine's clothes, her personal effects, and even the horses' saddles were pillaged in a crazed fervor of bloodlust-

_BANG._

Someone stamped on the upturned door, _hard,_ and Catherine shrieked at the scarred and bewhiskered face that leered back at her through the cracked window. The robber wrenched the carriage open, standing upright on the ruined vehicle's side and laughing callously as he dragged Catherine from her hiding place.

"Lookit 'ere, Slim," he cackled. "I think we go ourselves some privileged comp'ny!"

The one called Slim, a lean, sallow-skinned sort with a ropy scar on his face, mockingly touched the brim of his greasy brown leather hat. "Do excuse th'interruption, miss," he said, his eyes glinting with malice. "We 'ate to call on ya so sudden-like, but we jest couldn't find the time to send a letter."

The assorted rabble snickered, and Slim's expression became less jovial. With almost unnatural speed, Slim drew the black-handled revolver that hung at his side and aimed it at Catherine's abdomen. "A shame it is, t'waste somthin' so fine, but we caan't 'ave ye goin' around and shootin' yer mouth off about this here incident, can we?"

There was a blinding flash, and the stench of spent powder stung Catherine's nose as she clasped her belly and moaned before toppling over. The pain was indescribable as the remorseless piece of lead hit home, and the young woman's dress became stained with dirt and mud as she collapsed into the dark, wet loam.

The bandits, apparently, thought that the single bullet Slim had fired had been more than sufficient to snatch away Catherine's life, but they were wrong. The wounded girl, through some miraculous circumstance, retained enough of her coherent thought processes to try and blot out the agony of her wound and pretend to be slain. The ground became sticky with the crimson ooze that seeped from the hole in Catherine's abdomen, and she tried to make her breathing as shallow as possible until the bloodthirsty brigands took their leave.

And leave they did, but so great was Catherine's panic that she continued her façade long after the thunder of hoofbeats had receded into the far-off horizon. She began to slip in and out of a daze, dizzy from blood loss, and the sun's relentless heat made Catherine's throat parched and dry. That golden orb, which had seemed so beautiful earlier today, was now a remorseless, sadistic tormentor whose unbearable heat only added to Catherine's enormous suffering.

The young woman couldn't help but sob. _I'm going to die, _Catherine thought fearfully. _I don't believe it_.

A noise, just out of her peripheral vision, made Catherine almost burst into tears. The sound of horse's hooves on the dry ground was unmistakable, and she immediately concluded that her assailants had returned to finish her off.

If she'd had the breath to do so, Catherine would have gasped in fear at the pitch-black, yellow-eyed stallion that stopped just short of her broken body. The steed snorted, rolling its head as it gazed down at her, and its rider's black boots sent up a small cloud of dust as he dismounted, his spurs glinting in the noonday sun. Primal terror unlike any she'd ever known washed over Catherine in a nauseating wave as the man towered over her, and the black, ragged hat he sported gave the girl momentary respite from the unbearable heat.

_Oh, my God._

He seemed to _exude _menace. Most of his face was concealed beneath a scarlet hankerchief, and its blood-red shade mirrored the gore that had long since puddle around the wounded lady that stared back at him. Upon his shoulders he wore a black duster that had seen better days, and the ragged and torn edges of its hem made it seem as though he had a pair of batlike wings sprouting from his shoulders. He wore a white shirt that, like the rest of his garb, was the worse for wear, and a pair of curiously malformed gloves concealed his hands. The black pants he wore were held up by a meticulously polished, shining silver buckle, and his feet were shod in a matching pair of embroidered, midnight-black riding boots. He was armed, too: a menacing pair of Colt revolvers hung at his waist, and their leather straps, lined with bullets, made a fashionable x-shape as they crossed over his hips. A Bowie knife with a handle carved of deer horn hung in a sheath tied about his neck, and a Winchester rifle was slung across his back.

The only part of him that Catherine could see were his eyes, their narrow pupils dark and brooding in a sea of yellow fire, and she quailed with heart-wrenching fear as those unnerving eyes turned their gaze upon her.

If she'd had the strength, Catherine would have tried to run, but as it was she could only utter a harsh croak as this mysterious stranger stared at her.

He said nothing, so Catherine could only make wild guesses as to what this ruffian was planning to do to her. The great black coat that he sported trailed across the earth as he sank to his knees, and Catherine squeaked hoarsely in protest as the newcomer picked her up in his arms. She was _certainly _not used to being handled like _this_, but then the pain of her now-festering wound made tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes. The man carried her as if she weighed nothing, and an animal-like smell assailed Catherine's nostrils as he dumped her unceremoniously on the flank of his horse. That done, the stranger rummaged in his saddlebag and waved a small, glass vial of pungent-smelling herbs under her nose. The sharp fumes made Catherine's vision swim, and the last thing she remembered hearing was the soft _clip-clop_ of iron-shod hooves as the rider nudged his steed forward…

_Now…_

"Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!"

The eerie screeching of a nearby owl roused Catherine from her stupor, and it took a moment for her brain to banish the grogginess that blurred her eyes and dulled her senses. The first thing that came to mind was that it was now late in the evening, and the soft, orange glow of a crackling fire cast a myriad of dancing shadows upon the surrounding local flora. The air was thick with the ceaseless chirping of crickets, but even though the insects' mating calls screeched like a thousand violins, it was only one section of nature's glorious symphony. The bass croaks of frogs and toads made the damp night air throb with their continuous beat, and the occasional howl of a lonely coyote or solitary wolf made Catherine's skin break out in goosebumps.

She tried to rise, but gasped in pain as her wound sent arcs of pain shooting across her chest. The young woman clutched at the afflicted area-

-Only to find that it was swathed in a layer of bandages that had apparently come from what was left of her dress. Catherine gasped, clutching the blanket close to her-

_Blanket? _She thought fearfully. What had this man _done _to her while she lay helpless and sick? Had he…?

As if sensing her enormous discomfort, the mystery man turned from his seat by the fire, and the crackling flames made his amber eyes seem to glow with a light of their own. "I wasn't sure that ya'd wake up at all," he said simply. "You were wounded purty bad, ya know."

"Where am I? Who _are _you? _And where are my clothes?"_ Catherine demanded. "Are you so low a man that you'd take advantage of a helpless woman?"

"I dunno where the hell _I _am half the time," the cowboy replied. "So as to where we are, yer guess is as good as mine. M'name ain't of any importance right now, and lastly, I didn't do anythin' like _that. _I ain't a saint or nothin', but even_ I _draw the line somewhere. If I wanna woman, I'll head into town an' git myself one. "

Catherine gasped in shock at the nonchalant way that her supposed rescuer spoke of such things, but he paid her no mind as he continued speaking. "I knocked ya out back there because I didn't wan' ya t'feel me diggin' that bullet out o' yer side. Hurts like the devil, it does, an' I'm speakin' from experience. Yer welcome, by the way," he grumbled. "I coulda jest left ya there, with only th'buzzards fer comp'ny."

"Why…why do all of this for me?" Catherine asked. "I don't even _know _you."

"Don't matter," the man said gruffly. "And don't move about so much. That could reopen yer wound, an' I don't fancy havin' t'dig a grave this late at night. If ye needs some clothes, by the by, then there's a spare shirt and trousers in Shadow's saddlebag."

The black stallion rolled his head at the mention of his name, and Catherine reached hesitantly for the leather satchel that lay by his hoof. "He is beautiful," she admitted. "How did you break him?"

"I didn't," the cowboy said curtly, averting his head as Catherine changed into the outfit he'd offered her.

Her stomach rumbled cavernously, and Catherine blushed as she gingerly tugged the collar of the loaned shirt over her head. "Is there anything to eat?" she asked, embarrassed.

The man didn't even look at his companion as he stretched his arm out towards her, and clutched in his gloved palm was a piece of dried meat reminiscent of jerky. "Here," he said, again in that same gruff tone of voice. "While yer eatin' that, why don' ye tell me why someone or other put a price on yer head."

"What?" Catherine was clearly confused.

"Whoever attacked yer stage wasn' jest lookin' to steal," the stranger said. "They left most o' the valuable stuff, like that gold locket yer wearin' about yer neck. Th'only things missin' were pieces o' paper, letters and such like. That means that them bandits didn't jest wanna kill ye, _they were lookin' fer somethin'._ I bet someone hired 'em t'kill _you _an' retrieve whatever the hell it was that they was searchin' fer. So I say agin, who was it that tried to have ye put six feet under?"

"I...I have no idea," Catherine said, her voice hushed. "I did not possess anything of great monetary value."

"Where was the coach goin'?"

"San Francisco," Catherine replied, her mouth full of the tough, leathery meat. "I was going to join my parents there, but…" she sniffed. "I have no idea how I am going to get there now."

"Ya got money?" the cowboy asked bluntly.

"Why should I tell _you_?"

"Because fellas like me are always lookin' fer a chance to make some green," he stated.

"You're a _mercenary_," Catherine spat, realization dawning on her. "A gun-for-hire."

"Among other things," the stranger shrugged, and he made no attempt to refute her claim. "I ain't picky about the jobs I do, an' I don't judge them that pay me."

"I have no money," Catherine replied, her tone flat. "If anyone would meet your price, it would be Mother and Father."

"So yer folks'd pay me, then?"

"I cannot say for certain," Catherine told him. "But yes, I think they would. And for all I know, they might think me dead already."

"Fair enough," the cowboy nodded. "I ain't one t'take payment on faith, but I can't very well leave ye out here like this."

"I bet you would, if someone _paid _you enough," Catherine said acidly.

"I ain't gonna try changin' yer opinion," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Don' much care, either, t'tell ya the truth."

"Will you not, at the very least, tell me your name?" Catherine asked, her tone somewhat more level. "If we are to be traveling, it will be awkward if I do not to know what to call you."

He was silent for a moment. "Kurt," he said simply. "Kurt Wagner."

"Catherine Pryde," she responded, introducing herself in turn.

"Charmed," he grunted.

"Why do you hide your face like that?" Catherine asked curiously, trying to change the conversation.

"None o' yer damn business."

_What a jerk, _she thought, offended. _He's about as friendly as the bandits!_

"Go to sleep, _Catherine,"_ Kurt told her. "You'll need it. We can't stay here fer very much longer, in case those men are still wand'rin' 'round here. We'll ride out at dawn," he concluded, curling up into a ball upon the bare soil and pulling his duster around himself.

Catherine gingerly stood. "Is there a latrine or something near us?"

"Nope," Kurt's eyes danced with unholy amusement. "But there's a clump o' bushes o'er that way."

She stared. "You can't be serious."

"Yer problem, not mine," he said gruffly, turning on his side.

Catherine felt her face crinkle in disgust. _God, I miss New York City…_

A/N: Hey, everyone! To new friends, welcome! And to old friends, welcome back! ^^ For those of you not familiar with my series thus far, I shall take a moment to fill you in so as to avoid confusion. First off, the Kurt Wagner depicted in this story is very different than how he appears on the show, as you've seen. The differences in his personality will be quite common throughout this series. Secondly, Kurt lacks his powers of teleportation but retains his demonic appearance. This, too, will be a constant throughout the stories in this saga. But what will happen to Catherine as she struggles to get along with her new companion? _Who _had a motive for trying to kill her? And what dark secrets are concealed behind Kurt's hidden face? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have _any _ideas or suggestions on how I can make this story better, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	2. Chapter 2

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 2: A Gruff Man with a Soft Heart?

The sunrise that morning was glorious.

The early morning cry of birds mingled with the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets, and the miniscule drops of dew sparkled like hundreds of tiny gems in the soft, yellow light whilst they dripped lazily from the branches and leaves. The radiant, angelic glow of the rising sun tinged the mountains' snow-capped peaks a soft pinkish hue as the life-giving star rose majestically above the horizon like a great ruby dipped in molten gold, banishing the chilly night air as it heralded the start of a fresh, new day. The clouds were dyed like colored cotton balls, each resplendent in a varying shade of muted pink, deep purple, fiery orange and bloody red. It was almost as if the greatest artists of history had used the heavens as their canvas and the light as the paint in which to dip their brushes. Such was the humbling solitude, the awe-inspiring majesty of Nature in all her breathtaking glory, the same glory that had inspired painters and craftsmen since time immemorial.

Kurt Wagner, however, was hardly one to stop and smell the proverbial roses on his best of days. He rarely permitted himself any leisure time, and what he _did _allow himself was usually spent maintaining his weapons and equipment. After all, it didn't pay for one to let the tools of his trade go to part, especially in _this _business.

The same principle applied to filling his belly, and it was to the completion of this simple task that Kurt had dug out his small, scratched and pitted skillet in which to cook the morning meal for himself and his "guest."

Kurt scowled as he gripped the ears of a rabbit that had wandered too close to his campsite. Like many of its kin, the mammal had been foolish enough to try and filch some of Kurt's rations for breakfast.

Instead, the rabbit had wound up _being _Kurt's breakfast, and so it all came to even tender as far as the mutant was concerned.

But the bunny's demise was not the focus of Kurt's concentration as the blade of his Bowie knife peeled its skin like the rind of an orange. No, the problem was this _girl_ that had so suddenly and randomly become his traveling companion. Whoever had raided the stage that had carried her had done a professional's work. Take the driver, for example: one bullet, straight to the heart. It was a quick and efficient way to kill someone, the mark of an experienced murderer.

But then, even the most hardened of men might want to toy with their victims a bit, and it was only because of her tormentors' sadism that Catherine had survived the bullet in her belly. Kurt estimated that his aim had been off. The target, obviously, had been the girl's soft, squishy parts, but either the shooter was too excited to aim straight or was otherwise distracted. Whatever the cause, the fact remained that the round had instead punched a painful but shallow hole through Catherine's side. Not even a hole, Kurt corrected himself, but rather a graze deep enough for the bullet to embed itself. Agonizing, true, but certainly not lethal if treated quickly.

But the question remained, _who _would want to kill this girl?

That was the problem, Kurt growled in his throat as he slapped several strips of sizzling meat into the searing-hot pan. He didn't _know _very much about her. True, the girl had told him that her parents were miners hoping to strike it rich in the Gold Rush, but so what? That certainly wasn't a distinguishing characteristic, seeing as how everyone else was doing it, too.

A muted moan, almost like a kitten's cry, distracted Kurt from stewing in his frustration. A quick glance through the corner of his unnaturally-colored eyes confirmed that Catherine had roused herself from bed…_finally._

She yawned, stretching luxuriously, and Kurt suppressed a snort of derision. City slickers, they were all the same.

"'Bout time ya got up," the mutant said gruffly. "The day's a-wastin'."

"Good morning to you, too," Catherine told him, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Kurt tossed the remains of the rabbit somewhere into the shrubbery, his palm held outward as he offered the girl a handful of gristly meat sandwiched between two halves of a hard biscuit.

"Here," he said simply. "Best eat up now, 'cause we won't have another chance to forage until nightfall."

"We're traveling the whole _day?"_

"D'ya wanna git to San Fran or not?" Kurt snapped. "We'll rest at noon, when the day's hottest, but that's all I'm willin' t'give."

Catherine glared back at him, but then she tried to change the subject as she accepted the meal. "What _is _this? Bacon?"

"Rabbit," Kurt replied, lifting his hankerchief just enough to allow access to his mouth.

"And that idea appeals to you? Eating rabbit?"

"Oh, yeah," Kurt nodded vigorously. "Rabbit's a fine meal."

Catherine glanced at her portion in obvious distaste. "I think I am no longer hungry."

"Good," he said, snatching it away. "More fer me."

The black stallion, Shadow, whinnied and swished its tail, as if laughing at Catherine's ongoing misfortune.

"Your horse seems to share your sense of humor," she told him.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Kurt retorted. "He's smarter'n a lot o' people I know. Present company included."

"You seem to forget that _I'm _the one who hired you."

"Don't mean I have I like ya."

"And why not?" Catherine demanded, her feelings now genuinely hurt. "Can't you just…act _nice _for once?"

"Out here, th'only thang that bein' nice ever bought anybody was a free dirt nap," Kurt said, his voice flat and void of emotion.

"I don't think you need to worry about _me _making an attempt on your life," she spat back. "But the fact is that neither of us is going anywhere anytime soon. And I have done nothing to warrant your suspicion, anyway."

Kurt knew the girl had a point, but that didn't mean he had to admit it. "Fine," he grumbled sullenly, before trying to tack the conversation onto another course. "So, now that yer rested, can ye tell me who'd wanna put a price on yer head? Ya don't look like a troublemaker t'me," he added, his eyes roving over her analytically.

Catherine shuddered as he stared with those eyes, and she barely refrained from clutching herself as she tried to think of an answer. "I…I don't know. Mother and Father never mentioned anything like that in their letters."

"'Course they didn't," Kurt told her matter-of-factly. "That's 'cause someone else could read 'em, someone that them letters wasn't meant fer."

"Well, that was the only correspondence I've had with my parents since I was small," Catherine said. "I must confess that I'm at a loss to explain why those men were after me."

"In other words, ya got nothin'," Kurt concluded.

"Yes."

"That ain't much to go on," he growled.

"It'll have to do."

"Yeah, I s'pose it will," Kurt stood up and buckled on his weapons belt. "Ya know how to ride a horse, don't ya?"

Catherine stared at him as though he was spouting gibberish, and Kurt tried to squash the urge to strangle something as an outlet for his frustration. The golden eyes that had such an unnerving effect on Catherine rolled up into Kurt's skull as a sigh momentarily inflated the red fabric that hid his face.

"Oh, fer the love of…"

"Well, what did you expect? Equestrian skills are hardly mandatory in New York City!"

"Yeah, but they're sure as hell mandatory in _my _neck o' the woods," Kurt told her, sidling up to Shadow and rubbing the horse's neck fondly. When the mercenary was done stowing the gear in his leather satchel, the heel of Kurt's boot seemed to just _appear _in the saddle's stirrup. The man swung his other leg over with practiced ease as he added," It ain't hard, ya know."

"What if…what if he kicks me?" Catherine approached the steed warily.

"If he were gonna kick ya, he'd'a done it by now," Kurt retorted, extending his palm in a rare gesture of assistance.

His companion wasn't about to turn down help in matters such as these. Kurt was the expert out here, that much was obvious, and Catherine wasn't about to try mounting a stallion on her own. She'd never even been _near _horses before, and thus she hesitantly placed her hand in Kurt's.

_He's actually offering to help_? She thought. _How can someone be contrary one moment and agreeable the next? Is he actually taking what I said seriously?_

Catherine's face turned crimson at the unintentionally intimate gesture that her situation had forced her to make, but if Kurt had any such feelings, he didn't show them. His three-fingered glove hoisted her behind him as if she weighed nothing, but Catherine was still forced to wrap her arms around his waist to keep her balance.

The way her face heated up then, one could have toasted marshmallows on Catherine's cheeks.

The shining spurs at Kurt's heels dug into Shadow's sides as the black rider made a clicking noise with his tongue. Catherine felt the animal's whole body lurch as he began to move forward, and she held on for dear life as her balance threatened to leave her.

Kurt, though he'd never admit it, was not above noticing the way Catherine's grip on his midsection tightened. If anything, it was an effort to keep his gaze on the trail ahead and not on _her._

She _was _lovely, Kurt conceded silently. Not unattractive at all, and possessing an education that he himself sorely lacked. Kurt was actually somewhat envious of how cultured Catherine was, but it'd be better if he kept _that _to himself. In fact, it'd be better if he kept _everything _to himself. The girl thought him a savage and a grouch already, which was true, but more importantly, Kurt was _not _good with words. He could not bring to mind a description that did adequate justice to the feelings this…_girl _had sown in him in such a short time. How could he? No one had EVER made him feel like this before! Kurt was so used to acting on his own, with only his horse for company, that the prospect of feminine companionship left him both clueless and bewildered! He didn't know how to relate to women; it was not a skill one used often during lonely days on the trail! That, coupled with his stubborn pride and naturally sullen demeanor,was more than enough to alienate Catherine without even trying.

Though he was a coarse and crusty soul, Kurt _was _capable of having feelings. He just...wasn't good at showing them. He'd never been.

A tornado of confusion, frustration, and (dare he admit it?) quiet sadness made his stomach clench, and Kurt gripped Shadow's halter a little more tightly as he came to a difficult decision. Though some rebellious part of him _wanted _to see what would happen if he bothered with a serious relationship, the man knew it was better to leave the girl be. It was better to distance himself from her. They'd both be better off that way.

Besides, Kurt reminded himself morosely, if she knew what he _really _looked like…

Catherine seemed to read his mind. "Do you always cover your face like that?" she asked, completely forgetting the terse response that same inquiry had gotten her the night before. "Is there a scar?"

Kurt tried not to let his mind wander to the honeyed tones in his ear. "Yeah, let's go with that," he mumbled.

"How did you get it? In a barfight or something?"

Kurt gave a hoarse bark, which was as close to a laugh as he could manage. "It may have been. I've had it for as long as I kin remember."

Catherine reached for the knot that fastened the bandanna, her curiosity getting better of her-

-But Kurt's hand caught her wrist before her fingers could go to work. His tone was calm, but dangerous as well.

"Best to let some things stay buried," he said, fighting to keep his voice from shaking with anxiety and rage. "Don' try that agin, hear?"

He could almost _feel _her sag with disappointment as Shadow's steady pace took them deeper and deeper into the wilderness.

"I understand," Catherine said, her tone sincere. "I…I'm sorry for intruding."

Kurt was somewhat taken aback, but hid his consternation beneath his usual stern and gruff demeanor. "Ya might lose a finger next time," he warned.

"And if you attempt to harm me, the appendage _I _remove from _your _body will mean _so much more _to you than a finger," Catherine replied sweetly.

Kurt didn't reply as he tugged on the reins again. There were some things you just didn't joke about.

_Much later…_

The morning had long begun to wane into afternoon, and Catherine gasped, clutching her wounded side, as she painfully dismounted from Shadow's back. Her inner thighs burned and ached, the classic sign of saddle sores in one unaccustomed to such things, and Catherine's bandaged injury was in an agonizing stitch as Kurt dismounted beside her.

"Please tell me you have some water," Catherine gasped, her breath short.

Kurt grunted noncommittally, handing her his canteen. "Don't drink it too fast, or you'll make yerself sick," he warned. "Use it sparin'ly, 'cause water's precious where we're headed."

Catherine heeded his advice, taking a sip before passing the round bottle back to him. She tried to sit, hissed in pain, and hastily stood again.

"Thought so," Kurt nodded. "Saddle sores. That'll happen, when you're not used to ridin'. They'll fade, eventually, but it's gonna be mighty uncomfortable until then."

"You never sugar-coat anything, do you?" Catherine asked dryly, turning to step into the bushes.

"Nope. Don't see the point, neither," Kurt told her distractedly, his eyes scanning the cliffs for nonexistent enemies.

The mercenary's failure to pay attention to his charge almost proved fatal, for Kurt never saw Catherine shuffling into the surrounding shrubbery to relieve herself-

-Not knowing that just beyond those leafy bushes, the mountain ended in a dizzying sheer drop!

She screamed as her foot made contact with thin air, and the young woman toppled over the cliff like a solitary domino. In that moment, Catherine felt her end was near, and she silently waited for her body to shatter on the rocks below.

But then something leathery and tight grasped her palm like a steel vise, and Kurt Wagner heaved a deep breath through his mouth as he bore the sudden strain on his muscles. He lay on his belly, a sign that he'd literally _skidded _to the mountain's edge in a bid to save her, and Kurt's eyes were frantic as they locked on Catherine's own.

"Hold on," he told her simply, his other hand locking onto the girl's forearm. Kurt steeled his torso like a coiled spring, closed his eyes, and _pulled._

Catherine almost _flew _back over the cliff face to join him, such was the force of Kurt's sudden and very unexpected heroism.

The only side affect was that the red bandanna that had covered Kurt's face went fluttering, slowly, to the gravel at his feet.

Catherine's breath sobbed in her throat, her entire body still stiff with fear, but she did not fail to notice that Kurt instantly averted his head the moment his mask became undone. With the back of his high-collared coat facing her, the mercenary pulled his hat low over face and slowly, deliberately, retrieved the piece of cloth and restored its former position.

Catherine didn't see anything, but she momentarily quashed her disappointment with simple gratitude for being alive at all right now. "Th-thank you," she said, her tone quavering.

Kurt turned his head halfway, and those golden eyes seemed to bore into Catherine's very soul as they peeked out from behind the bright red kerchief.

But for just a split second, those unnerving eyes lacked the usual grouchiness and surliness that Kurt had so consistently displayed. Instead, Catherine saw that their amber depths contained…something else.

Then the moment ended, and Kurt shrugged the whole thing off.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "If you died, I wouldn't get paid, now would I?"

A/N: Aw, how sweet? But just _who _is pulling the strings? _Who _is out to kill Catherine? And what dark secrets of Kurt's past made him what he is today? Find out in coming chapters! AND PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^ Now, that said, I'd like to take a moment to answer an inquiry that several of my readers have asked me: I have indeed planned for at least one other Marvel Character to make his debut in this story, but just who and when is for me to know and you to find out! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	3. Chapter 3

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 3: Nefarious Machinations

Something one must remember above all else when he is out and about in the wilderness is that mountainous weather is dangerous and _very _unpredictable. The sudden squalls of rain can turn the dusty hills into mighty mudslides, and the freezing hail can turn an unwary traveler's feet and hands into blocks of ice. Lightning is a very real danger in those wild and untamed peaks, and the high elevation puts one very much at risk from the searing thunderbolts of crackling electricity while the massive boulders that littered the ground could trigger an avalanche of crushing stone.

Apparently, Catherine Pryde didn't get that memo.

The icy rainstorm had seemed to crop up from virtually nowhere, and the black, ominous thunderclouds obscured the sun's light with alarming speed. The peaceful atmosphere was abruptly turned into a raging tempest in almost the blink of an eye, and now Catherine shivered and shook in her sodden clothing as Kurt fashioned a makeshift shelter from a saddle blanket and a nearby stick. The large piece of cloth that the mercenary now held, much like the long black coat he wore around his shoulders, had been tooled with a special oil so as not to absorb rain and other moisture. But even so, this was hardly enough to suppress his natural curmudgeonly demeanor, and thus Kurt swore softly and viciously under his breath at the sudden reversal his fortunes had taken.

Shadow seemed to mirror his discomfort from the nearby tree that Kurt had tied him to, and the steed pawed the ground and whinnied insistently at its master in its own language.

It was a tongue Kurt was fluid in. He followed the horse's gaze down to the shuddering form of the girl, shivering like a castanet with the cold. Catherine's utter ineptitude in pursuits of this nature would have been amusing if she hadn't looked so pitiful. Kurt was used to such things, but his companion was still adjusting and therefore vulnerable to diseases brought on by bouts of chills and coughing. With this in mind, Kurt sighed exasperatedly and shrugged off the black duster that swirled around his ankles and draped it over the freezing Catherine.

The gesture was astonishing, both in its suddenness and in its utter sincerity. Kurt kept his face carefully blank, but inwardly he felt his heart shoot fireworks at the startled, then content expression on Catherine's face as the cloth settled around her. It was still warm from his body heat, luckily, and the relief it brought the young woman after being out in the cold air was indescribable.

For her part, Catherine tried not to let out a startled squeak as the stiff and heavy fabric enveloped her like some kind of amoeba. The black cloth smelled strongly of the things she'd come to associate with Kurt: coffee, leather, gunpowder and horse's hair.

Strangely, Catherine reflected, it was not altogether a bad aroma. It was certainly very…_masculine._

She blushed as soon as the thought crossed her mind. _Stop that! _The girl scolded herself. _You don't even know anything _about _him!_

Kurt noticed her cheeks turning puce, but the meaning was lost upon him due to his serious nature. "You got a fever or somethin'?" he asked. "I hope not, 'cause there ain't any dry clothes in the saddlebag no more. Rain's got 'em all wet."

"No, I...I'm fine," Catherine told him, drawing the coat closer. "Thank you."

"I didn't do nothin' worth thankin'," Kurt snorted. "Just doin' my job, that's all. You hired me to gitcha to San Fran, _alive_, an' I intend to fulfill my end o' th'bargain."

"So your concern for my well-being is only professional?" Catherine asked, hurt in her eyes. _Is he even _capable _of caring about other people?_

"I find it's better t'keep it that way," Kurt replied, though he had to practically _drag _the words up his throat. Curling into a ball, he added, "We may as well git some rest while we can. No tellin' when th'rain'll stop, ya know."

With that statement, and its air of finality, the mercenary cut the conversation brutally short. It was for both his own good and Catherine's, Kurt reminded himself, that he keep his feelings to himself. But deep down, he knew that there was _another _reason why he continued to distance himself from her: Kurt was _afraid _to care about anyone. He was _afraid _to hold another close to him, for fear that he would lose everything.

That fear was all too real, for Kurt and Catherine were not destined to alone in the forest that rainy day. Someone, or some_thing,_ was already watching them.

"Let's take them," the first murmured. "Before they wake up!"

"I am right behind you," the second agreed, hefting his club and following his companion into the campsite.

It was but the work of a moment and a swift _thwack _of a stone club to turn sleep into unconsciousness, and the strangers' captives were stealthily borne away through the rainy mists.

The fact that Kurt was now knocked out like a light was a demonstration of how cruel Fate can be when she has a mind to. He was now trapped in the realm of dreams, but this was one dream Kurt _desperately _wanted to wake up from. It was the same nightmarish hell that had plagued him like a virus and haunted his waking thoughts like an angry spirit for what seemed like an eternity.

It was a memory that Kurt would have given anything to be rid of.

_The American Southwest, twelve years ago…_

_CRASH!_

_The large bottle of potent whiskey shattered against the rough walls of the log cabin, sending its alcoholic contents spraying across the room in a might splatter. The large, beefy man that had thrown the glass projectile clenched his meaty fists and roared, "I SAID I WANTED THAT FIREWOOD CHOPPED, BOY! YOU BIN SLACKIN' ON YER CHORES AGAIN, YA WORTHLESS PIECE O' COW MANURE!"_

_Something moved from behind a nearby chair, and the giant seized a spaded tail in his sausage-like fingers. "Ya liddle freak," he hissed, his breath hot and heavy with drunkenness. "Mebbe this'll teach ya t'mind yer manners, see?"_

_Two pairs of frightened, golden eyes stared back at their tormentor, and little Kurt flinched as the man brought his fist down. _

_SMACK!_

_The lad screamed, throwing his hands up by pure reflex. It did him no good._

_SMACK!_

"_No, Papa! I'll be good, I promise!" Kurt sobbed. "Don't hit me no more, Papa, please!"_

"_SHUT UP, YA LITTLE WIMP!" The man, presumably Kurt's father, howled as he pummeled the young mutant's face. "DON'T GIMME NO CHEEK, NOW, Y'HEAR!"_

"_MAMA! HELP!"_

_At the sound of Kurt's distress, an older-looking woman, her face drawn and weary-looking, burst through the door and screamed in horror at the sight that greeted her. Kurt's mother shrieked in panic as she vainly latched onto her husband's arm, trying desperately to save the boy from his brutal punishment._

_The giant backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling, and Kurt's father rounded on her menacingly. "I TOL' YA BEFORE, DON'T BOTHER ME WHEN I'M BUSY!" he shouted, balling up his skinned knuckles into a fist once more. "MEBBE __THIS'LL__ TEACH YA SOME RESPECT, BITCH!"_

_The woman stared up in terror, and Kurt could only watch as the man who'd sired him mercilessly thrashed his helpless wife-_

"Kurt?" Catherine's worried and anxious voice snapped him out of his nightmare. Those golden eyes snapped open, and Kurt panted hoarsely for a moment before regaining his composure.

"Mmmfff…" Kurt shook his head to clear the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, and the first thing he noticed was the aching bump on the side of his head. Though his dream had been brief, a considerable span of time seemed to have passed, for now the sky was rapidly beginning to darken with the onset of twilight. The second thing that came to mind was that the situation in which he and his companion found themselves was _not at all favorable_.

Kurt and Catherine were both bound by their wrists to a pair of upright wooden poles, and the mercenary's weapons were conspicuously absent from his belt. His horse, too, was gone, tied securely to the base of a large oak tree just out of Kurt's line of sight. The giant bonfire that dominated the surrounding scenery provided an eerie backdrop for the display that made Catherine's breath catch in her throat.

Scores of fearsome-looking men, their bodies painted with a variety of dyes and pigmentations, stood in a massive, circular formation with silent, accusing faces. They clutched a variety of weapons, from stone-tipped spears and arrows to firearms that may have been taken from the dead fingers of their previous owners. Their ruddy skin blended almost seamlessly with the firelight's glow, but the warriors seemed almost oblivious to the prisoners' presence-

-That is, until some unseen force parted their ranks like the Red Sea before Moses.

The Native Americans kept their expressions humble as another of their number, older and wiser-looking than his fellows, marched with deliberate sluggishness to gaze down upon the bound forms of Catherine and Kurt. The Chief, for it could only be he, had a wrinkled face like old, cracked leather, and eyes like tarnished pennies. His gaze seemed at once harsh yet venerable, fierce yet at the same time compassionate, and the rod in his hand was garnished with a variety of animal-derived charms and totems.

Then the Chief of this tribe spoke in surprisingly good English as a giant drum added emphasis to his words.

"Your kind is _not _welcome on our lands," he intoned in his quavery voice. "And now your transgression upon the lands of our ancestors will be subject to punishment by _our _laws…

_Epilogue_

_Meanwhile San Francisco…_

To say that Jeremiah "Boss" Platt was an unscrupulous fellow would be an understatement of unbelievable magnitude. A ravenous snake generally had more of a moral code than he, and it was known far and wide that when Boss Platt of the Platt Mining Company wanted something, he got it…one way or another.

Seriously, this guy was Scrooge on steroids.

He was the image of the wealthy fat cat. A tweed vest barely encompassed the girth of his considerable belly, and the thinning mane of graying hair on his head was the same salt-and-pepper color as his short and stubby beard. His fingers, like everything else about him, were fat and oversized, and his eyes, the color of faded dollar bills, were piggish and mean-looking. His tan-colored pants were only held up by the brown suspenders that ran over his shoulders, and Platt's ever-present, noxiously smoking cigar hissed as he ground it into the ashtray.

"The word is still no, then?" another man, leaning against the doorway, asked.

"The Prydes still refuse to sell their property," Platt growled. "I _need _that land, Wilson! Those fools have no idea what they are sitting on! It's a fortune in gold, and _I want it!"_

"Yes, you're right, offing their little girl worked _so _well," the one called Wilson said sarcastically. "But why not send those ruffians to finish her off?"

"I can't!" Platt snarled, banging his fist down on the table. "Do you have _any idea _who she's traveling with, even as we speak? Kurt Wagner, that's who! The gun-for-hire who bested you like a child!"

A revolver seemed to suddenly sprout from Platt's lips as the other man closed the distance with alarming speed. "That ain't gonna happen again, Platt," he hissed in the landowner's ear. One way or another, Wagner's goin' _down _this time! I let my guard down, is all, an' don' you fergit it!"

The firearm snapped back into its holster, and Platt tried to maintain his composure. "Hunt them down," he said simply. "Kill them both. We cannot let the girl reach San Francisco, Wilson. If she dies, there will be nothing to keep her idiot parents from selling to me. I cannot and will not afford this wrench in my plan."

"Save the Machiavellian act for someone who's impressed," Wilson said, getting his hat from the door. "Oh, and by the way…"

_WHIZZZZT-THUNK!_

A Bowie knife thudded into the wall so close to Platt's ear the he could _hear _the metal ringing as it quivered from the impact.

"The name…is _Deadpool."_

A/N: Yes, by popular demand, Deadpool IS one of our bad guys, folks! ^^ But what will happen to Kurt and Catherine in the hands of the Native Americans? Will they ever reach San Fran? Or will Deadpool find them first? All this and more in coming chapters! And yes, I know this was a little shorter than usual, but it was really just a filler before the REAL fun begins! XD Finally, PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	4. Chapter 4

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 4: Escape!

Kurt surreptitiously tested his bonds as he and his companion were fenced in by a circle of rough-hewn but very lethal-looking stone spears and clubs. He wriggled his wrists, first from side to side, then up and down, searching for a weak spot in the woven hemp that he could exploit as Catherine's eyes grew wide with fear.

"What are they going to do to us?" the girl whispered.

"I dunno, but I don't plan on stickin' 'round t'find out," Kurt grunted, trying desperately to keep his head clear as his lower arms wiggled and writhed. "See if ya can slip yer hands through them ropes, Catherine. Yer wrists are thinner an' smaller'n mine."

Catherine paused, not least because Kurt had actually addressed her by her first name rather than ambiguously. Her lip trembled, and she hesitated until he nudged her with his boot.

"Now ain't th'time t'git all wimpy-like," Kurt muttered harshly. "Gitcher act t'gether or we're _both _gonna die, see? Do it, an' don' let 'em see ye!"

Thoroughly chastised, Catherine complied with Kurt's hastily-formulated plan. She twisted her hand experimentally-

-And barely held in a gasp of excitement when the rope that bound her slid down her fingers, giving just a quarter of an inch for the girl to use her slender hands to loosen the bindings further. Catherine felt her wrist twinge as she curled her fingertips upward, pulling and grasping valiantly at the coarse material with the edges of her nails. Kurt tried to keep his face straight as Catherine slowly but surely freed herself, and all the while the atmosphere in the Native American encampment was growing more and more hostile.

The Chief pointed a finger accusingly at him. "This is our home," he snarled. "Your people come like swarms of flies, driving us further and further from the lands of our ancestors! You come like a plague, taking by force what has been rightfully ours for hundreds of years! My people have already been forced to travel far from our traditional home because of you slaughter the buffalo in the hundreds of thousands, and now we barely have enough to eat! I will _not _allow you to deprive my people of all we have we left!"

"We ain't here fer that," Kurt stated flatly. "Another day or so, an' we woulda been gone from these here lands completely. We ain't lookin' fer trouble, neither. Believe me or don't but 'tis the truth."

"Why do you hide behind that mask?" the Chief demanded, changing the subject… for the moment. "Shall I remove it?" The stone-tipped spear began to lift the red fabric that concealed Kurt's face, and the mutant turned away-

-Only to have the Native American leader lower his weapon and stick it, point-first, in the ground between Kurt's legs. "If you wish to pass through _our _lands," the Chief intoned, "you must _earn _the right to do so. Release him!"

At the old man's signal, two of his braves strode forward and slashed Kurt's wrists while simultaneously depriving him of all his weapons. The mutant rubbed the red, inflamed skin where his bonds had rubbed it raw, and the Chief glanced at him pointedly. "This matter shall be decided according to _our _laws: trial by combat!"

A rousing cheer erupted from the assembled Native Americans, and Kurt glanced at the Chief. "The terms?" he asked simply.

"You will face our mightiest warrior," the old man said. "If you defeat him, we shall let you pass. If you lose…_you both shall die._"

"And who, exactly, am I goin' t'be fightin'?"

"You could not possibly pronounce his true name in _your _tongue, but you may call him Warpath," the Chief smirked, gesturing with his arm.

There was a hubbub, and Warpath himself stepped forward at the Chief's summons.

Catherine gasped. "Big as a house" hardly did him justice. It was immediately apparent that Warpath's father was Gilgamesh and his mother was an Amazon. He carried a giant spear that could have functioned as a lance had he been on horseback, and his black hair hung in wild dreadlocks that ran past his shoulders. These were intertwined with bear claws, wolf's teeth, and other trinkets that denoted his bravery, but Warpath's sheer height was enough to put the fear of God into most of his opponents. He may have topped seven feet, for all Catherine knew, and every inch of him rippled with sinewy muscle that hinted at almost Herculean strength.

The Chief nodded at Kurt. "You may use any weapon you choose, save for your firearms," he said, tossing Kurt a spear of his own and a jagged-edged stone knife.

Knowing he had no other option, Kurt shrugged off his black coat and picked up the proffered armaments. All present moved back to create a large circle of open space in which to witness this battle, and Warpath grinned viciously as he dropped to a crouch with his long, feather-tufted spear at the ready.

Catherine felt the rope binding her hands together finally loosen before falling to the ground in a small coil, but she kept up the pretense of being helpless so as not to hinder Kurt. She couldn't run, she knew, as she'd lose her way without Kurt to guide her.

And besides, Catherine wouldn't get very far anyway, seeing as how many of the Native Americans were armed with bows and arrows. She'd be filled like a pincushion before she got ten paces.

Kurt knew this too, and he gave her a small nod before turning his attention back to Warpath-

-Who, incidentally, took advantage of his foe's distraction to land a punishing haymaker on the side of Kurt's jaw. The red hankerchief became spotted with blood as Kurt gasped in pain, but he recovered enough of his senses to dive and avoid a thrust from Warpath's spearpoint. The stone tip embedded itself in the earth, and Kurt lashed out with his foot to snap it in two before his opponent could recover for a second lunge. The wooden shaft fell in halves amidst a sickening _crack, _and Warpath growled his frustration before tossing his ruined weapon aside and drawing his knife.

Kurt did the same, and the stone blade seemed to _materialize _in his hand. Warpath howled as his slashed in a scything arc, and Kurt hissed in pain as the jagged stone tore a shallow cut across the middle of his chest. He recovered quickly, though, and twisted to one side before laying open the side of Warpath's still-extended arm. Blood spattered the dark, earthy loam, and Warpath elbowed Kurt in the face, heedless of his injury, before a swift kick sent the mutant's legs flying out from under him. Kurt's eyes widened in panic as he saw the brave's fist barreling downwards towards his head, and he rolled just in time to avoid having his face pulverized. As he did so, Kurt lashed upward with the toe of his boot, and Warpath felt several of his teeth crack and loosen as the hardened leather made devastating contact with his chin. He staggered, and Kurt took advantage of his enemy's discomfort to regain his footing and drive his blade deep into the flesh and muscle of Warpath's leg. Warpath roared in pain and fury, backhanding Kurt blindly across the face and sending him sprawling back into the dirt even as the mutant's blade remained embedded in his body. Kurt felt his ears ring with the force of the impact, and he felt immense pressure on his ribs as Warpath pinned him beneath his foot.

Unfortunately, it was the same foot that was connected to the leg from which the hilt of Kurt's knife still protruded.

Kurt saw the opening and took it. His hand flashed upward, yanking the weapon free from muscle and tissue amidst a geyser of blood that spattered his face. Kurt ignored his opponent's anguished howl in favor of immediate self-preservation, and the soil was further dampened with crimson as he brought the weapon low so as to slash across the back of Warpath's ankle and sever the Achilles tendon.

Warpath's balance instantly vanished, and he toppled backward like a felled tree. No sooner had his body collided with the blood-stained soil than Kurt somersaulted through the air and landed on his chest, his knife at the warrior's throat.

The entire Native American encampment was dead silent, and it was only the Chief who broke the stunned atmosphere.

"Kill him, then," he told Kurt. "It is your right."

The mutant nodded, and drove the blade downward-

-Right into the soil just next to Warpath's ear.

"I never killed nobody who didn't deserve killin' in th' first place," he growled, "an' this 'un here don' meet them qualifications."

The Chief looked surprised, but then another, gentler expression crossed his face. "By defeating Warpath, you have earned your freedom," he told Kurt gravely, "but by sparing my _son_, you have gained my gratitude."

"Yer son, eh?" Kurt glanced down at his defeated enemy. "I shouldn't be too surprised, I guess."

The Chief deftly untied one of the charms from his staff, an eagle's talon strung through a leather thong, and his wrinkled hand clasped Kurt's own as he pressed the totem into the mutant's palm. "Go, with my blessing, and take this with you," he told him. "Our brothers and sisters are many in number in these mountains, and when they see that you bear this, they will know that you speak with _my _voice. None of my sons or daughter shall trouble you further while you bear this talisman. Go, and take my apologies with you…_Nightcrawler."_

"Nightcrawler?" Kurt asked. "I ain't familiar with that name, sir."

"It is a swift-moving reptile that dwells under rocks and stones," the Chief said. "Its speed is so great that it is very difficult to catch. We all in this tribe have a spirit animal that watches over us, and from what I witnessed from seeing you fight, you share the lizard's speed and agility. I am certain that you have the mark of the nightcrawler spirit upon you."

With another gesture, the Chief had two very attractive Native American women present Kurt with a small satchel of horse's hide. "Provisions, for your journey," he added. "The dried fruits and nuts will give you much energy with only a few bites." The old man smiled. "Now take your woman, and go."

"I'm not his woman!" Catherine yelled.

"She's _not _my woman!" Kurt shouted at the very same time.

"My mistake," the Chief grinned, clearly not convinced, as two of his braves came up with Shadow in tow.

"Damn right it's yer mistake," Kurt muttered, swinging over the saddle before helping Catherine up to join him. "She ain't my type, anyway."

"_Excuse me?"_ Catherine demanded, her tone outraged as Shadow began to clip-clop away. "So I'm not _good enough _for you? Is that what you're saying?"

"Wait, no, I wasn't-"

"YOU'RE SUCH A JERK!"

"Wouldja jest listen fer a moment-"

"I'm _done _listening to you, you arrogant, slimy, uncouth…"

"Shuttup and git the bandages outta the saddle bag, wouldja?"

"Get them yourself!"

"I'm still bleedin', 'ere!"

"Oh, yes, says the big, tough cowboy!"

"Yew wouldn't be _anywhere _right now if it wasn't fer me!" Kurt snapped, as the Native American encampment grew distant. "You'd be a buzzard turd by now if'n I hadn't come along!"

"Better than having to put up with _you!" _Catherine snapped. "You're a _jerk, _you know that?"

"I'll let ya know when I start t'care," Kurt retorted, dabbing some scraps of cloth on his cuts. "All that matters t'me right now is gittin' paid," he added, though he hated himself for saying it. _I can't ever let ya know how I really feel, _Kurt thought mournfully. _I wouldn't know how to put it into words, anyhow._

"Would you sell me out if my attackers offered you more?" Catherine demanded.

"Nope," Kurt said, his tone coarse. _Never. I'd never sell ya out, can't ye see that?_

"How far off course are we?" Catherine inquired, weary of arguing.

"Won't be able t'tell 'till nightfall," Kurt grunted. "If'n the sky's clear, then we kin take our bearin's from the North Star."

"You can do that?" Catherine was surprised.

"You learn a lot o' things out 'ere," Kurt replied, his expression smug behind his mask. _I'd gladly teach ya, if'n ya'd gimme a chance._

Shadow snorted and rolled his eyes, as if sensing Kurt's inner turmoil.

"Don' be lookin' at me like that," Kurt told his mount. "I know whatcher thinkin', an' I don't like it."

"You _talk _to the horse?" Catherine asked dubiously.

"More like _he _talks _t'me_," Kurt corrected her. "Ya just have t'know th'language, that's all."

"And what was he thinking about that you found so disagreeable?" Catherine teased, her waspish mood all but forgotten.

Kurt blushed beneath his bandanna. "Nothin'," he snapped, masking his embarrassment with his gruff demeanor. "Ain't none o' yer business, anyhow."

"It seems a lot of what you do is none of my business."

"Yer better off not knowin'."

"I beg to differ. Just what are you hiding?" Catherine asked, her eyes drawn again to the bandanna that covered Kurt's features. "Surely it isn't _that _bad."

"Nope," Kurt snorted. "It's worse. Jest drop it, okay? I'm tired, I'm bleedin', an' I don' feel like talkin' about this right now. My past and my face are _my _business an' no one else's, see? If'n I wanted people to know ever'thin' I wouldn't be wearin' this kerchief, would I?"

Catherine conceded this round to Kurt, realizing that the ragged edges of his voice were a clue to the exhaustion he was feeling after his fight with Warpath. The trees overhead tinged the rays of sunlight an earthy green, and the lazy warmth made Catherine's eyes droop as Shadow and his rider carried her further and further along her journey. "_Nightcrawler," _she muttered sleepily, slouching into Kurt's shoulder.

Though the dozing girl couldn't hear him, Kurt sighed exasperatedly. "I ain't never gonna be rid o' that damn _name_, am I?"

_Epilogue_

_Southern Nevada_

The assassin known as Deadpool pushed the saloon's swinging doors aside, whistling "Singing in the Rain," as he walked casually into the seedy dive. The establishment was more of a death trap than bar: the hardened and bloodthirsty bandits that patronized it made the atmosphere menacing and the games of poker even more so. One could lose his wages and his life within minutes of being dealt in, and the air hung heavy with cigar smoke and alcoholic vapors as the pianist played gently in the background.

The bartender knew full well who Deadpool was, having heard rumors of what had happened to the _last _guy who'd asked the hitman to pay his tab. Popular legend held that Deadpool had sliced the man's fingers off, one by one, while asking his victim, quite jovially, to "tell me about your day."

Deadpool was infamous for his unpredictable nature, and, even more so, for the utter cheerfulness and carefree attitude with which he did his job. The moniker, "The Merc with the Mouth," suited him well.

He slid a glass of whiskey across the scratched and pitted wooden bar. "O-on the h-h-house, sir," he stammered fearfully.

Deadpool grinned as he drained the pint. "How kind of you, my friend. And wise."

"Wh-what can I do ya for?"

"I got a job," Deadpool replied, glancing around at the assembled rabble. "And I need a posse…"

A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUN! Well, that doesn't look good for our heroes, huh? Will Kurt and Catherine ever reach their goal? What dangers are in store for them? And will they get there before Deadpool catches up with them? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If _you _have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	5. Chapter 5

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men: Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 6: Dark of the Moon

It was long after the glowing sun had disappeared below the horizon, and long after the last vestiges of its hallowed rays had disappeared from the sky, that found a road-weary Kurt Wagner taking his ease by the embers of a dying fire. Hours had passed since the two travelers' departure from the Native American encampment, and in that time Kurt and his horse had put considerable distance behind them in Catherine's ongoing bid to rejoin her parents.

Kurt had pushed himself and Shadow hard. His beloved steed was exhausted, its saddle blanket and leather accoutrements still streaked with the animal's sweat, and the only thing keeping it upright was the fact that horses slept on their feet. Come dawn, Kurt silently promised himself, his horse would leave this spot with a full belly and a fresh apple for its efforts.

After all, humans weren't the only things that liked to have their work rewarded.

Kurt let his mind wander as he shrugged off his coat, groaning as the movement stretched his aching and injured body. The fight with Warpath had taken a harder toll on him than he'd let on, and now Kurt was paying the price for his stubbornness. Nature was collecting her due from him, and in spades.

He fumbled in the pocket of his shirt, fishing out a needle and thread to quite literally put himself back together. Medical care was rudimentary at best in this day and age, and in such wild country even more so. The mutant gritted his teeth so as not to awaken the sleeping Catherine, and plunged the metal sliver into his wounded leg, closing up the knife wound with speed honed by years of practice.

It was bloody, and it was painful. Kurt grunted in agony and gritted his teeth so hard that he thought his jaw would crack, and in his desperation to fix his mind on something else, he grabbed the red bandanna that covered his face and tore it off. His breathing was harsh, and he sucked in the fresh air gratefully with rasping breaths. The crimson cloth lay close at hand, and the fire burned ever lower as Kurt continued his gruesome ministrations. He'd have some brand-new scars come morning, he knew.

But then, compared with how many scars he'd _already _gotten in the course of pursuing his chosen trade, a few more probably wouldn't make any difference.

Kurt snapped the thread with his elongated fangs, and the fearsome-looking teeth glinted in the embers' glow as his blunt fingers worked with surprising dexterity to tie off the stitches. That done, Kurt grabbed a silver hip flask from his belt, spat out the cork and drank deeply, hoping that the buzz from the alcohol would serve to numb the now-throbbing pain in his leg.

It wasn't the only wound he'd sustained while fighting the Native American giant, but Kurt was too exhausted and too fed up with the whole damn thing to force himself to continue his messy work. He yawned, stretching skyward before pulling his coat on again, and the red bandanna resumed its former position only moments later. Catherine hadn't seen anything, Kurt reassured himself. His back was facing her, and the firelight only served to further shadow his misshapen features.

No one saw. No one knew. Everything was as it should be.

Or so Kurt thought…

_Meanwhile…_

Despite the late hour, Catherine Pryde was having more than a little difficulty putting her restless mind at ease. She, like Kurt, was weary after her ordeal with the Native Americans and a long day spent traveling upon a road that was little more than a glorified goat track, but her tired body insistently ignored the need for sleep in favor of the torrent of thoughts that swirled around her mind like a whirling dervish. No, Catherine's restless brain denied her the comfort of sleep because she could not put it at rest, and the growing gale of emotions that swirled inside her continued to enlarge with each passing day.

Many of these feelings in question concerned the mysterious mercenary whose company Catherine had been keeping for these past few days.

He certainly epitomized the stereotypical "tall, dark and handsome type." Well, maybe not "handsome," Catherine reflected, seeing as how she _still _didn't know what he looked like under that hankerchief. The sheer curiosity Catherine felt whenever she saw that piece of red cloth was maddening, and it only increased her desire to find out just _what _Kurt was hiding under there. His hidden face wasn't the only thing about him that Kurt cloaked in mystique: Catherine had no idea where he came from, why he chose this way of making of a living, or even if "Kurt Wagner" was his real name! There was not a single goddamn thing about Catherine's new companion that she could be _certain _about, and yet, slowly but surely, Kurt had sown these…_feelings_ in Catherine's heart.

She blushed at the silent admission she'd unwittingly made, but it was true: Catherine felt sparks of electricity crawl up her arms at his slightest touch, and those golden eyes that seemed so cold and emotionless now held, upon closer inspection, so many other things. What those things were she couldn't be sure, but Catherine knew they were there. She'd seen them, when Kurt thought her attention had been otherwise occupied.

Catherine scowled. Kurt was a coarse, gruff and crusty soul, with as much a sense of humor as a constipated wildcat. He was arrogant, rough, and even cruelly blunt at times, with no concept of tact _at all. _But despite all of his not-so-redeeming qualities, and they were many, Catherine felt herself irreversibly drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.

Of course, Catherine had _no_ intention of telling _anyone _this, especially Kurt. She knew full well that the type of gal to which men of Kurt's breed were attracted typically charged by the hour. A "proper" girl like her was more than likely not to Kurt's taste.

Catherine sighed softly, turning over in her canvas sleeping bag amidst a soft ruffle of cloth. She had almost closed her eyes when-

_Groan._

Her head lifted slightly, and Catherine blinked a few times to clear her vision and find the source of the noise. It didn't take her long, for Kurt Wagner uttered another agonized grunt as he continued sewing up his battered body with the bloody needle in his hand.

He had no idea she was watching him, Catherine determined, and she stifled her instinctive cry of "What's wrong?" in favor of simply observing Kurt so as to learn a little bit more about him.

Those gloved hands tore off the black cowboy hat that perched on Kurt's head, and for a moment, Catherine could have sworn that his hair seemed to be of a dark _blue_ shade_._ But the shadows cast by the dying fire made it almost impossible for her to tell if the shaggy mop was indeed blue or simply dark-colored, and Catherine forced herself to focus as Kurt cursed softly under his breath.

Catherine blushed at his colorful swearing, but her face became drawn with horror as she realized what he was doing._ Is he…sewing himself up? Like a corpse? How is that possible?_

Catherine had become acquainted with several doctors over the years, and it was common knowledge that even the toughest of men dreaded the thought of having their wounds stitched with nothing more than a bottle of whiskey to ease the pain. Anesthetic was precious and costly, so Catherine had heard, and the most hardened of cowboys screamed like babes as the doctors went about performing their trade. Yet Kurt, who was (somewhat) sober, was patching his wounds with only the occasional grunt to denote the pain he was undoubtedly feeling.

Her breath caught in her throat as Kurt discarded his bandanna, but excitement swiftly turned to frustration as Catherine realized that he was still facing the fire. Maddening curiosity made her _itch _to catch just a glimpse of what Kurt took such extraordinary lengths to hide, and Catherine slowly pushed herself upright-

"I told ya before," Kurt told her, without even looking, "that it's best t'let some things stay buried. Why d'ya keep stickin' yer nose where it don't belong? Go back to sleep, Catherine. Leave me be."

Catherine knew the jig was up, and she dejectedly walked over to join Kurt by the fire. As she sat down, she noticed that Kurt's mask and hat were back in place. "I…I was simply curious," she said. "You go to such lengths to hide your face, and I cannot help wondering if what you conceal is as bad as you make it out to be."

"No, it ain't," Kurt snorted, taking a swig of alcohol as he continued his messy stitching. "It's worse."

"Did your parents tell you that?" Catherine asked. "Surely they did not think you were ugly enough to hide yourself all the time."

Kurt paused in mid-guzzle, and a sad look came into his eyes as he slowly set the flask down. "Me Ma ne'er said anythin' unless'n me Pa tol' her to," he said finally. "An' Pa were usually too drunk t'say anythin' I could understand. He let 'is fists do the talkin', mostly," Kurt added, without a trace of emotion.

"Your father beat you?" Catherine gasped.

Beneath his mask, Kurt smiled bitterly. "Must seem a shock to sheltered folks like yerself, eh? Anyhow, seein' as ya got me talkin' already, I may as well finish 'cause I know damn well ya won't leave me alone 'till ya hear th'end o' th'story.

"Well, one thing come to another one evenin'. Pa tried t'hit me agin when I was a little bit older, an' 'e got real pissed off 'cause I slugged 'im right back 'stead o' cowerin' like 'e wanted. Th'next thing I knew, we were in a right ol' spat, me'n Pa. I tol' 'im I didn' wanna see 'is ugly mug e'er again, 'cause Ma had died years ago an' she was th'only one who e'er gave a damn about me, an' he said that I was excess baggage an' that 'e didn' wan' me under 'is roof no more. I walked right o' th' house, got on a horse an' ne'er looked back, not once."

"What happened then?"

"I did whatever I could t'score some green an' fill my belly," Kurt admitted. "When I tired o' runnin' errands I decided that bein' a mercenary'd be more profitable than bein' a beggar boy. Th'rest, as they say, is hist'ry."

Catherine felt a wave of pity well up inside her at Kurt's tragic tale. "And your father?"

Kurt spat in the dirt. "Dunno. We ain't spoken since that night, an' I mean t'keep it that way. If'n he's alive, that's all well an' good, but if'n he's dead, then that's square wi' me too. I won't be sheddin' any tears for 'im, an' 'is will be a lonely grave."

"I'm sorry," Catherine murmured. "I did not mean to dredge up bad memories for you, Kurt."

"Jest don't go broadcastin' that stuff, see?" Kurt asked, his tone reverting to its usual gruffness. "Th'less people know about me, th'better."

"And that includes your face?" Catherine asked softly.

"It _especially _includes my face," Kurt snapped. "I ain't gonna tell you agin, that's my bus'ness an' no one else's!"

"I understand," Catherine nodded, trying to conceal her disappointment. "I will not bother you about it any further."

"Good," Kurt muttered. "I was gittin' tired o'talkin' anyway."

"I rather enjoy talking, actually," Catherine commented. "I find it helps one's peace of mind."

"Says you," Kurt told her skeptically. "I prefer t'let my piece do th'talkin'." As he spoke, Kurt's hand patted the revolver on his hip. "If God didn't make man equal, then Samuel Colt sure as hell did."

She giggled, and Kurt scowled at her. "What's so damn funny?"

"You actually made a joke," Catherine told him, a huge smile on her face. "It proves you _do _have a sense of humor!"

"Don' push yer luck," Kurt grumbled, tipping his flask again. "It ain't gonna happen agin fer a while."

She directed that radiant smile at him, and Kurt felt his heart soar as his face turned a darker shade of blue beneath his mask. _Damn, she's cute…_

"Kurt?"

"What?"

"You're staring at me."

"I am _not," _he blustered. "I jest thought I saw somethin' movin' in th'bushes o'er yonder, see? It ain't _you _I'm lookin' at!"

Catherine was unconvinced, and secretly glad of it, but she gave no sign of her inner pride that Kurt had found her so captivating. "Whatever you say, Kurt."

"Damn right, whatever I say," Kurt muttered into his flask. "Now git back t'sleep, y'hear? We got more travelin' t'do on th'morrow, an' you'll need yer strength."

She sighed, knowing that the conversation was over, but inwardly Catherine felt a mixture of pride and pity. Pride, because she now knew that Kurt thought of her as more of a friend than a business partner.

Pity, because of the fact that Kurt's abusive childhood had played a large part in molding and shaping him into what he was today. The man's coarse and gruff nature was born of a learned instinct not to trust anyone, and he kept everything to himself because he feared that he'd be hurt like he'd been as a child. Kurt was not mean or blunt by nature, Catherine reflected sadly, but rather a product of the environment he grew up in. It was a crying shame, literally, that she would never be able to see the man Kurt _could _have been.

Catherine shuddered. She couldn't _imagine _growing up in a home like that, and she certainly couldn't picture her father acting so cruelly. Mr. Pryde was a good and honest man, well-respected by all who knew him. Kurt's father, on the other hand, seemed like the worst kind of scum, the dregs of what society had to offer. How had Kurt even _survived _in a home like that?

It was unfair, and Catherine could see why Kurt resented those who came from better stock than he. People like her were a constant reminder of what Kurt had never possessed, and she knew that every time Kurt looked at her, he remembered all that he never _had._

Kurt's jealousy was understandable, if not likeable, and Catherine found herself filled with loathing at the thought of being the embodiment of everything Kurt had ever longed for as a child. _How could he even stand to look at me?_ She thought morosely. _How would Kurt ever accept me now?_

She couldn't have known it, but Kurt was thinking the exact same thing. Surely, he thought, Catherine thought him some kind of savage when compared to her civilized upbringing! How could his wild and untamed ways win the heart of one born and bred in the midst of means and money? How could a lowly mercenary and gun-for-hire gain the affection of a privileged lady? It could _never _happen, and it could _never _work! This was no fairy tale! This was the real world!

But despite all of this, both Catherine and Kurt found themselves, hoping against hope, that each would realize how the other felt, and that the dangerous attraction they unwittingly shared would lead to something other than each other's ruin…

_Epilogue_

Deadpool nudged his horse along, his modified Winchester rifle slung diagonally across his back. The soot-blackened spurs that he wore dug cruelly into the animal's side, and he glanced at the assorted rabble he'd "persuaded" to ride with him on this venture. Boss Platt, after all, had asked for the best of America's worst to be chosen for this job, and Deadpool had honored this wish accordingly…for a thirty-five percent raise on his initial fee. The bearded man on Deadpool's right bore a scruffy beard and reeked of alcohol, and the villain tried to break the terse silence in his usual manner: by telling a joke.

"What's black and white and red all over?" Deadpool cajoled the other rider in a singsong voice.

"Shuttup," the other man growled. "Ain't got time fer this here nonsense."

"A skunk with a sunburn, of course!" Deadpool continued, as if he had not heard. He cupped a hand to his ear dramatically, but then sagged with exaggerated disappointment. "What? Does _no one _think that that's funny? You guys really don't have a sense of humor, huh?"

"I said, shuttup!" the rider snarled.

Deadpool smiled back at him. "After you," he said, his voice courteous.

Then the mercenary drew both pistols from his saddle holsters, and shot him.

The body fell like a sack of potatoes, and Deadpool kept grinning as he turned to his companions. "He didn't get it, I guess. Who wants to hear another one?"

A/N: Dude, that's cold. But I hope you all enjoyed this longer chapter! What will become of Kurt and Catherine's feelings? Will Deadpool catch up with them before they reach San Franciso? And will Boss Platt ever be brought to justice? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque.

P.S. To AmuletSpade: You raised a legitimate point in your last review, and I thank you for that. You were right, actually; I'd spent too much time on Kurt already, and it was time to shift the focus a little. Thank you once again for your helpful advice! ^^


	6. Chapter 6

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 6: Spies and Sources!

At the risk of sounding clichéd, the dilapidated shantytown of Thunder Bluff was no place for yellowbellies.

The crude wooden buildings that made up this alcohol-soaked and debauched encampment seemed as if they had been haphazardly thrown together, and their planks swelled and cracked as they sat nestled in the side of a mountain, wreathed in smoggy wisps of clouds and smoke from campfires and cigars. The worst of what mankind had to offer came to Thunder Bluff's brothels, bars and gambling dens to drown their sins in alcohol and whittle their wages away in a drunken stupor, and money changed hands as quickly as the allegiances that were made in the shadowy alleys. Boozing, laughing, roistering and gambling, the hardened trailhands, cutthroats and bounty hunters enjoyed their luxury after the hardships of life on the lonely trail. Murder was an everyday occurrence here, no more common than the horse manure that encrusted one's boots as he walked down the muddy street, and it was not uncommon to see a body lying along the road with a bullet hole or Bowie knife in his back. These were wild men, murderous and cunning, and they were infamous for laughing and jesting one minute and killing each other the next. Not a day went by when the windows were not shattered in bouts of theft and vandalism, and the air was perpetually heavy with the reek of spent gunpowder as drunken, bearded men fired their weapons skyward into the wee hours of the morning. This was the Sodom of the West, the mountain's Tombstone, a hellhole of sin and debauchery after the Devil's own black heart. No lawman dared venture here, no priest or man of the cloth dared nudge his horse beneath Thunder Bluff's gates, and no civil servant dared to attempt bringing order to the whiskey-soaked chaos.

Obviously, this was the last place that Catherine Pryde expected to find herself.

She almost felt like a zoo exhibit as Kurt nudged his horse, Shadow, down the filthy street and into the heart of this evil place. The stench of manure, bathtub whiskey, gunpowder and dried blood made Catherine's stomach churn, and she made an effort to avoid the lustful eyes of those that she passed by. The young woman's skin broke out in goosebumps at the citizens' jeers and catcalls, the wording of which would make even the most hardened sailor blush, and Kurt responded by edging his hand closer to the black-handled revolvers he wore on his hips.

All was silent as the inhabitants of Thunder Bluff stared at the new arrivals, and their gaze reminded Catherine of a mountain lion's scrutinizing squint. These people seemed to be debating within themselves about whether they should kill Kurt and his companion right off the bat and rob them blind!

Something _squelched _in the muck, and Kurt snapped his head to the left as a thoroughly soused trailhand staggered drunkenly up to Catherine and seized her arm in his beefy fingers.

"'Bout time we got some new women, eh?" he slurred. "'Ow much are ya chargin'?"

Catherine gritted her teeth and tried to free herself. "I am _not _what you assume me to be," she said firmly, suppressing the bile that rose in her throat. "Let me go."

"I ain't got any intention o' doin' _that,_" the man leered. "Now, c'mon! Git down from there!"

_CLICK._

Kurt drew his sidearms so fast that the air _hissed, _and the drunkard's lewd comments were halted by the cold, steel barrel that pressed against his forehead.

"You got five seconds to git outta here," Kurt growled, "Or I'll blow a hole in yer head so big they'll _never _be able to clean up the mess."

Even in his intoxicated state, the cowboy knew death when he saw it. He staggered backward in his haste to get away, but instead tripped and fell wobbly-legged into the sludge. His eyes burned with venom as he glared at Kurt, but Catherine's protector shrugged him off like a fly on the brim of his hat and nudged Shadow forward once more.

"_What on earth _are we doing here?" Catherine hissed under her breath. "I have no desire to spend another _second _in this place!"

"We came 'ere fer answers," Kurt replied, his bandanna moving in tandem with his concealed mouth. "We need t'find out who's put a price on yer head an' why, fer starters. Right now, there's too much I _don't _know, an' that's a recipe fer disaster if it ain't rectified. An' in my experience, which is considerable, th'best way t'git information about scumbags is to ask other scumbags. Word travels fast, especially in dives like this, an' it's a safe bet that _some'un _'ere will know a little somethin' about yer situation. This is th'only town fer miles, so folks like me come from all over, includin' San Fran. I bin here afore, t'git tidbits of information," Kurt added, "an' I already got some contacts that'll sing like a canary…fer the right price. That price, by th'way, is gonna be added to my fee," he warned Catherine.

"You're an extortionist," she told him. "You're going to bleed Mother and Father dry!"

"Not my problem," Kurt grunted, dismounting in front of a particularly disreputable-looking saloon and tying Shadow to a nearby post. "Now zip yer yap. I'm gonna go in 'ere and squeeze my contact for anythin' that could 'elp us, an' I don't need t'be worryin' about protectin' ya on top o' that. Take this," he growled, shoving his rifle into Catherine's hands, "An' blow the head off th'first guy who tries t'have 'is way with ye. After that, everyone else should give ya a wide berth. I'll b'back shortly."

The cold metal seemed to burn Catherine's palms as she hefted the weapon, and Kurt's black coat billowed behind him as he pushed the swinging doors wide. Even from where she sat, Catherine could clearly make out the _chinking _of shot glasses, the metallic sound of coins being counted, the muted tones of the player piano and the drone of blended conversation that emanated from the bar. Kurt was right, she admitted grudgingly. It would have been suicide for someone like Catherine to enter a place like _that. _

Now all she could do was wait for him, and Catherine felt decidedly nervous about being left out in the open in such a hellish town. She held the firearm closer like a morbid teddy bear, seeking comfort from the weight of its remorseless metal, and prayed that Kurt would return before circumstances forced her to use it…

_Meanwhile…_

It was fortunate that Kurt already had his face covered, for if he hadn't the sheer stench of the saloon's interior would have knocked him out cold. The air was heavy with the sour stench of whiskey and vomit, and the clouds of cigar and pipe smoke made the seedy dive hazy with its sheer volume. Kurt felt his eyes water at the smell of so much tobacco, but he pushed his discomfort aside in favor of completing the objective he'd set for himself.

His black boots stepped over the slumped form of a drunk who'd collapsed upon the floor, and the man's glass, still half-full, was clutched in his limp fingers. More than one man turned to stare at the newcomer, but Kurt wasn't worried: he'd been here before, many times, and enough of the bar's regulars were familiar with his fiery temper to ensure that he would remain undisturbed.

After all, the wooden timbers that made up the saloon's far left wall still bore an ugly, dark red splotch from the _last _time someone had tried to accost Kurt in the middle of his drink.

The pitted and scratched surface of the wooden bar was rough under Kurt's gloved hands as he took a seat, and the bartender, a balding man with only a few teeth left in his mouth, glanced up at the sound of softly clinking coin. The old one's rheumy eyes, made ill by years spent in the harsh, smoky air, nevertheless shined with greed at the thought of the acquisition of Kurt's wealth.

"Wagner," he said, his voice reedy and his tone cajoling, "It's been a while since you've graced me with your presence in my humble saloon. What can I get you, hmm? Whiskey? Ale? Scotch?"

"Save it," Kurt snorted. "I ain't here t'go into my cups. You know damn well that I come into this hellhole fer one reason only, an' it ain't the food, neither."

The bartender nodded. "And what's in it for me?"

"Three silver dollars," Kurt told him flatly. "An' don't try raisin' that amount, Tom. I'm already givin' ya more'n ya deserve."

"Very well," Tom said, scraping the proffered currency off of the stained wood and into his palm. "What, may I ask, is the nature of this inquiry?"

Kurt glanced to his left and right before leaning forward. "I bin hired by a young lady who needs t'git to San Fran. Trouble is, someone seems intent on puttin' 'er in 'er grave afore she gits there, see? Whatever this feller wants, he's willin' t'kill t'get it, an' I got no idea why he's targetin' Catherine. She ain't got nothin' worth takin', as far as I know, but mebbe ya can tell me different."

"By any chance," Tom asked slowly. "Does this Catherine go by the last name of 'Pryde'?"

"She does."

"Then she's a dead woman, an' you are as well if ya stay with 'er," Tom spat. "I 'ad a bunch o' ruffians come in 'ere t'other day, and when they was good and soused they started shoutin' and laughin' about how they'd been hired to hunt down a lady a by the same name. The Prydes, so they said, own a gold mine in San Fran, but they got no idea that the mine's worth a whole lot more'n they paid for it."

"Go on," Kurt urged him, his eyes glowing as the wheels in his brain churned.

"Way I heard it, the Prydes are minin' fer gold, an' they're sittin' on top o' the biggest deposit on this side o' the Rockies. Whoever hired those men, so I heard, wants t'buy out the Prydes, see? 'E's gonna buy their minin' operation for a fraction o' what it's worth afore they hit paydirt, an' then 'e can 'ave all o' that gold fer hisself. But, agin, I'm jest goin' by what I o'erheard, yer lady friend is the sole inheritor o' that mine in case anythin' happens to 'er Ma and Pa. So whoever the hell hired them brigands needs to git rid o' _her _afore he attempts the buyout."

"And if the Prydes refuse?"

"Then, judgin' by what I've seen o' this feller, e'll likely kill _them, _too, an' then buy th'mine at auction."

"I don't suppose these men said who hired them?" Kurt asked hopefully.

"They was mum on that, Wagner."

"Dammit," Kurt swore. "Can ya gimme th'name o' th'hitman, then?"

"No way," Tom shook his head. "He ain't th'sort ya talk about lightly. Yer gonna have t'sweeten this," he gestured to the money, "a _whole lot_."

Kurt glared at him, but so dire was the need for this tidbit that he grudgingly pressed two more dollar coins into Tom's wrinkled hand.

That, apparently, was sufficient to loosen the old man's tongue. The bartender pocketed the currency and glanced all around him furtively before whispering, "I 'eard tell o' him afore, ya know. He's a professional hitman and plum crazy t'boot. Calls himself Deadpool, an' if he 'as any other name, he hides it as well as ya do yer face."

"So he's _that _sort, huh?"

"Naw, Deadpool's the sort that gives _that _sort a bad name," Tom said fearfully. "He'd kill ya as soon as look at ya, 'cause he ain't all right up 'ere." He tapped his temple meaningfully. "I'd be careful, if'n I was you. This feller's every bit as deadly as you are, Wagner, an' infinitely more devious."

"I'll keep that in mind," Kurt said shortly. Though he gave no such indication, his brain was abuzz with what Tom had told him. The situation was even more perilous than he'd dared to think, both for Catherine and himself.

For there was no way for Tom to know that his information had gone stale quite some time ago. Not only did Kurt know of Deadpool, but the two men _had crossed paths before._ And if his rival was anything like himself, Kurt knew that Deadpool had neither forgiven nor forgotten what had occurred the last time they'd met.

If Kurt was even _capable _of fearing another man, it was Deadpool who received that dubious honor. Their last encounter, as stated previously, had _not _ended well for either of them, and Kurt was positive that the grinning, smart-mouthing gunslinger would relish the chance to even the score. Whether or not he could actually _kill _Deadpool remained very much in doubt, Kurt thought somberly. It was likely that, in the event of a shootout, both he _and _his foe would end up dead by the time the firing stopped.

And there was no profit in being dead at all. Kurt felt a slight shudder pass over his spine, and he got up to leave-

-Only to have the big drunkard from earlier clap a hand firmly on his shoulder.

"You an' I got unfinished business," he growled, jerking a thumb behind him. "Mebbe my friends kin teach ya not t'interfere with my business. Get 'im!"

Tom, seeing this, ducked behind his bar with a despondent look on his face. _Oh, Lord, not again…_

"It's only fair t'warn you fellas, ya caught me on a bad day," Kurt said, grinning fiercely beneath his mask. His arm shot up to the hand that held him, and a swift, practiced twist broke the alcoholic's wrist in three places amidst a sickening _crack. _The assailant howled, staggering backward, and Kurt took that opportunity to smash a chair to splinters over the man's skull before lifting him bodily and throwing him into three of his companions. The effect was not unlike a bowling ball colliding with the corresponding pins, and the glass window shattered with a tremendous _crash_ as Kurt's momentum threw them clear across the bar, where they landed, stunned, in the fetid water of a dilapidated horse trough. Without even missing a step, Kurt swung around and backhanded a second foe across the face, breaking his jaw almost in two before sweeping the man's legs out from under him. The drunkard collapsed like a fallen tree, and Kurt gripped him by his shirt collar and heaved him onto the bar. With a wild yell, the mercenary slid his stunned enemy across the splintering wood with a great push, and the glasses and bottles that had previously occupied the space shattered as the gangster's body swept them onto the floor. Kurt smiled with satisfaction as the alcoholic veritably flew off the bar's opposite end, almost breaking a table cleanly in half with the force of his impact. Then, with speed heightened by the adrenaline that surged through his veins, Kurt drew both of his pistols and pointed them into the crowds of assembled rabble. The effect was instantaneous, and many of the saloon's patrons fell over themselves in their haste to get away.

"If any other man dare challenge me, let 'im come forward so's I kin fill 'im with lead!" Kurt roared. "Who's next, huh?"

Silence greeted his proclamation, and Kurt snorted contemptuously. "I thought so. Not a single spine among any o' ya. I'm gonna be goin' now, an' if'n any o' you guttersnipes try t'stop me I'll blow yer heads right off, hear?"

The mercenary kept his weapons ready as he edged out the door, and then Kurt ran pell-mell for his horse. Catherine, amazingly, was still unharmed, and Kurt felt something akin to pride at the fortitude and patience she'd shown on his behalf. The girl stared back at the commotion Kurt had caused, and Catherine's voice was morbidly fascinated in his ear as her protector swung into Shadow's saddle.

"What on Earth…?"

"Long story," Kurt told her. "We'd best be goin', though. I imagine we've worn out our welcome."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Catherine inquired as Kurt nudged the horse forward with his spurs.

He paused. Certainly Catherine would be better off not knowing just how dangerous her situation had become. She'd already been through a lot, and Kurt wasn't about to cause her further anxiety if he could avoid it.

Unfortunately, that particular thought only served to remind Kurt of his feelings for Catherine, which in turn caused his face to heat up as she wrapped her arms around his waist so as not to lose her balance.

Kurt's next words felt like they had been coated in bile. He felt like the lowest kind of scum for having to conceal the truth from her, and some lucid part of Kurt's mind realized that this was the first time he'd felt guilty for that sort of thing. Lying, after all, came with his chosen trade. It was part of the package.

"No," he said finally. "Nothin' useful, anyway."

A/N: Well, it wouldn't be a Wild West fic without a barfight, would it? XD But will Kurt's lie come back to haunt him? Will he and Catherine ever admit their feelings? And what of Boss Platt? Will he succeed in his moneymaking scheme? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or constructive criticism, LET ME KNOW!

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	7. Chapter 7

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 7: Revelations! Deadpool's Trap

_Prologue_

_The Wyoming-Utah Border, hours ago…_

The assassin known only as Deadpool hummed a merry tune to himself in spite of the searing hot and dry weather, and the relentless heat of the noonday sun beat down mercilessly on the scruffy, bearded cutthroats that had recently come into his employ. The grunt work, after all, was usually reserved for those lower on the totem pole, and Deadpool's ego was too big to stomach that sort of indignity in any case. Thus it was that the assorted rabble grumbled and muttered venomously as their leader worked them like horses, their shirts and chaps stained with sweat under the mercenary's unsettling gaze.

Deadpool idly picked up several of the dozens of dynamite sticks that were now nestled in the mountainside, and he grinned foolishly as he began to juggle them like a clown in a circus. The image would have been comical had it not been so downright disturbing, and the way Deadpool treated the whole situation as more of a sport than anything else only served to heighten his men's wariness of him. That was good, he knew; fear was, after all, an excellent motivator.

"Why're we doin' this agin?" a dim-sounding thug asked, pulling at his beard.

A swift backhand sent the speaker stumbling, and Deadpool's tone was contemptuous as he rounded on him. "Ya ain't bin listenin', Krad," he snarled. "Yer jest like th'rest o' the knuckle'eads I got fer a posse! Now dig th'mud outta yer ears, all o' ya, an' pay attention!"

Silence was instantaneous, and Deadpool's tone turned smug with satisfaction as he elaborated. "Me an' ol' Wagner got some unfinished business, see? An' this job is th'perfect chance to even th'score wi' him. Plus, I can't abide that feller," he admitted. "He got no sense o' humor at all, he don't. Wouldn't know a joke if it fell out of a tree an' hit 'im on th'noggin!"

Remembering the fate of their late companion, Deadpool's gang burst out in forced laughter, and their leader smiled winningly as he continued, "My intel says that Wager an' Miss Pryde'll 'ave t'pass through this here canyon in order t'git t'the other side o' th'mountains. An' when 'e does…" He looked at the explosive meaningfully.

"We blow 'em both t'kingdom come!" the dimwitted man realized, a slow grin growing on his ugly features. But then he grew puzzled. "How d'ya know they'll be passin' by this way? We ain't seen hide nor hair o' Wagner since settin' out."

"Because I use my head, idiot," Deadpool spat. "If I know Wagner, an' I do, then he'll 'ave stopped in Thunder Bluff t'git information afore continuin' 'is journey. That'll put 'im on a collision course wi' us, 'cause there ain't no doubt anymore that 'e knows I'm after 'im."

"An' yer sure that that's th'case?"

"Wagner has informants in Thunder Bluff," the mercenary replied, grinning a predator's smile. "As do I." Then his tone turned harsh. "Now git movin', y'all, unless'n ya wanna be caught in the blast! I sure as hell ain't gonna be blowin _myself _up t'day! Fall back to the rendezvous point, _now!"_

As his gang hurried to comply, Deadpool mounted his horse and once again felt the lust for vengeance surge in his veins. Though he spoke only to himself, the merciless tone in the gunslinger's voice was colder than a howling Arctic wind. "You an' I are gonna 'ave a reckoning that's bin long overdue, Wagner…"

_Dodge City, three years ago…_

_The man who would one day become the infamous Deadpool whistled softly to himself as he strode down the dusty city street of the infamous cowboy town. The clouds of dry, choking earth that rose with his footsteps made Wade Wilson's mouth parched and dry, and the spurs on his heels clinked softly in rhythm with his confident footfalls._

_Wade's stance was confident, his pace cocky and his shoulders squared as he stepped into the bar for a quick drink of whiskey to wet his whistle. The features that would become so hard and set were, for now, youthful and even almost innocent, and the skin of Wade's face lacked the hard, cracked, leathery appearance of one who'd spent long, lonely hours on the Western trails. No, this man was a relative newcomer to the Western territories, but that did nothing to diminish Wilson's dangerous nature._

_Though he was still young, he was gung-ho and sharp with a pistol, and Wade thought that there wasn't a man in all the world who could best him._

_He was wrong, and before the sun set that day, Wilson would pay the price for his overconfidence._

"_Bartender, pour me a drink," Wilson said, his tone light. "It's a scorcher out there!"_

"_An' ya think that's worth mouthin' about?" the bartender muttered under his breath. "'It's _always_ hot here, ya idjit."_

_The scornful words did not escape Wilson's keen hearing. "Now there was no call for that," he said, genuinely injured while his gaze became deadly. "I'm just trying to make conversation."_

"_I'd rather ya paid fer yer drink," the other man grunted. "This ain't a charity."_

"_I agree," Wilson said, plonking several coins on the bar. "Mercy is so overrated, don't you think?"_

_The hapless bartender never saw his customer's hands inching toward his gun belt, and so fast was Wilson's draw that his latest victim saw only the powder flash before his life was extinguished in a gout of spraying blood._

_The body slumped beneath the counter, and dead silence reigned until another man stood up with a clear challenge in his eyes._

"_That man was one o' the few friends I got left in this world," Kurt Wagner snarled, his revolvers out before he'd even finished speaking. "An' I ain't gonna let ya kill 'im without sufferin' th'consequences."_

_Wilson's aim never wavered. "Oh, really? Well then, why don' t you come and- OOF!"_

_His witticism was cut off rather jarringly as Wagner bolted out of his chair and slammed into Wilson like a battering ram, knocking him to the floor and sending the murderer's weapons flying from his hands. The glittering, scalpel-sharp edge of Wagner's Bowie knife glinted softly as he drew it from its sheath, and a swift backhand loosened several of Wilson's teeth before he pressed the cold metal against the flesh of Wilson's face._

_Slowly, deliberately, Kurt Wagner drew his weapon in a diagonal line down the side of Wilson's head, laying open a long, deep cut that immediately blossomed with blood. Wilson writhed in agony as Wagner went about his gruesome vengeance, and only when he'd carved a gruesome injury from Wilson's left ear to the right side of his face did Wagner cease, smiling grimly beneath his mask._

"_Now you'll bear a reminder o' what you did fer th'rest o' yer miserable life, an' you'll remember th'life ya took ev'ry time ya glance in a mirror. I ain't gonna kill ya, that'd be too easy; you'll live out yer days wi' that there scar, an' all an' sundry will turn from ya as ya pass 'em by. _That's _th'only reason I let ya live this day._

_Kurt's tone was menacing as he stood once more. "If'n ya think yer man enough t'fight some'un who can hit ya back, an' when ya've grown yerself a spine an' a pair o' balls, come an' find me so's I kin kill ya proper-like._ _ M'name's Kurt Wagner, if'n ya care t'remember it."_

_Something cold splashed on Wilson's bloodied face as Kurt emptied the contents of his pint upon him, to the hilarity of all present, and his wound burned as the alcohol seeped into it. Kurt stepped over him as casually as if he were a pile of manure, and his tone was mocking as he left with a parting shot._

"_Don' show yer face 'round 'ere agin, y'hear? I imagine we'll all know ya when we see ya."_

_Now..._

Deadpool's face burned with pent-up rage as his damaged mind brought him back to the present, and the detonator's plunger was clutched in the mercenary's hand so hard that his knuckles turned white whilstis very _pores _seemed to ooze menace.

Then one of his scouts leaned over the ledge and shouted, "Here they come, boss! Git ready!"

A twisted, vengeful smile crossed Deadpool's scarred features as he sighed with unholy joy. Then, at the top of his lungs, he called out, "I bin waitin' fer three years fer this, Wagner! Go to hell, ya yella-bellied sonofabitch, an' take the girl with ya!"

The mercenary threw his weight forward, and the plunger descended.

Fifty sticks of dynamite detonated instantly.

The killer was so gleeful at the sight that rewarded him that he almost broke out into a merry jig. The sheer _volume _of noise from the distant explosion was almost deafening, and the roiling, incandescent fireball that pulverized the adjoining canyon to rubble was so searingly hot that it turned sand into glass. The jagged, heavy boulders rumbled down the slopes in the dozens and scores, each and every one of them heavy enough to squash horse and rider into jelly. The entire canyon wall was instantly turned to rubble through Deadpool's machinations, and the villains squealed with delight as he pictured the debris pulverizing his hated enemy. A cloud of choking dust made eyesight labored and the air harsh to breathe, but visibility was far from Deadpool's mind. Wagner may have been the best, but he was only human. _No one _could survive something like _this._

He smiled grimly to himself as he turned his horse around. "Now we're even, Wagner. An' good riddance, ya bastard."

Moments later, both Deadpool and his companions had vanished like smoke on the wind, and the massive, towering pile of rubble seemed to be all that remained of the once-famous bounty-hunter…

A/N: Brutal cliffhanger, huh? LITERALLY! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! And yes, I know this chapter is shorter than usual, but it needed to be written as a prelude to what happens next. And just what _will _happen next, you ask? Have Kurt and Catherine survived Deadpool's trap? Will Catherine ever reunite with her parents? You'll find out soon enough, because in coming chapters, secrets are revealed while the veil is lifted!

And I'm not just speaking figuratively…

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	8. Chapter 8

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 8: Requiem

_Prologue_

_Previously…_

_The sun beat down with searing fire as Kurt Wagner and his consort, Catherine Pryde, arduously negotiated the rocky canyon pass. The hoof-falls of Kurt's beloved horse, Shadow, echoed with an eerie hollowness in the empty space, and the two travelers had only the dusty red canyon walls for company in the midst of the noonday heat._

_Catherine shook sweat out of her eyes, wiping a hand across her forehead. "I would be much obliged if you would lend me your canteen," she said, her body sagging with a sluggishness brought on by the suffocating temperature. "The weather is almost unbearable here."_

"_You already had a swig, an' that'll be more'n enough to hold ya for a while yet," Kurt grunted. "Water's precious in these here parts, an' we gotta ration what we got 'till we come to a stream or somethin'. Otherwise the heat'll fry us like eggs in a pan, an' the vultures will pick our bones clean."_

"_Gosh, that's encouraging," Catherine retorted, her tone sarcastic. "Your positive attitude is so uplifting in times like these, Kurt."_

"_If ya got nothin' useful t'say, then don' say nothin' at all," Kurt snapped back. "I ain't in th'mood t'argue with ya agin, 'specially this late in th'day."_

"_You started it," Catherine grumbled, her tone sulking._

_Kurt grinned triumphantly beneath his mask. "Yeah, an' I finished it, too."_

"_You are such a jerk."_

"_An' yer a soft-bellied city gal, but ya don't see me goin' 'round broadcastin' it."_

"_I think you're not giving me enough credit. I've learned a lot out here."_

"_Ya ain't learned even half o' what I know, an' that's a fact."_

"_Then teach me!"_

"_No."_

"_Why not?" Catherine asked, crossing her arms._

"'_Cause I said, that's why," Kurt glared over his shoulder. "I ain't got time t'be playin' schoolteacher."_

"_As if you had anything better to do," Catherine said slyly._

"_I ain't gonna tell you agin t' shut the hell-"_

_Kurt's rough, coarse tones were cut off at the sound of a distance rumble farther up the mountain. The very earth seemed to shake under Shadow's hooves, and the horse reared while snorting fearfully._

_The mercenary's quick mind almost instantly ascertained what was going on, and he grabbed his companion roughly-_

_-And no sooner had Kurt Wagner hurled both of them from the saddle than Catherine Pryde's world abruptly collapsed in an avalanche of massive boulders and choking dust…_

_Now…_

There was no way of telling how long Catherine had lain unconscious by the side of the rubble-strewn path. Time had no meaning in the blackness that had so suddenly claimed her, and its passage went unnoticed by the ragged and bruised young woman who was only now just beginning to re-emerge from her almost comatose state.

The first thing Catherine noticed was that her ears _hurt. _The explosion's volume had been so deafening that her ears were still leaking small amounts of blood that evidenced damaged eardrums, and her head was filled with a ceaseless, shrill whine that caused Catherine's balance to be unsteady. Her dress was now a scorched and ragged remnant of its former self, and the fabric around Catherine's ankles had been completely burned away while her legs and arms bore bruises. This was evidence of the crushing shock wave that had followed the detonation, the force of which had picked up Catherine like a discarded doll and sent her flying through the air while robbing her of consciousness. But by some paradox, it was to this that she owed her life, for the same invisible pressure wave that had almost crushed Catherine's rib cage had also thrown her some distance away from the site of the wreckage. Only through this almost Providential good luck had she avoided death.

Kurt would know what to do, Catherine reassured herself. He'd already have their next move planned-

Her heart plunged into her innards as a cold and sickening thought flashed through Catherine's brain.

_Oh, God. Kurt…_

Forsaking her own safety, Catherine shook off the torn vestiges of her shoes and with admirable speed closed the two or three yards that separated her from Ground Zero. Panic and gut-wrenching, heart-stopping fear made Catherine's very _soul _ache with worry, and her hands became cut and bleeding as she frantically tried to dig through the rubble in a bid to find Kurt.

Tears began to leak out of Catherine's eyes, and their salty wetness stained the dry red soil upon which she kneeled. The young woman owed her _life _to Kurt, and in the time she'd known him he'd made the transition from a grudging employee to…something else. What that something was Catherine could not yet put into words, but there was no mistaking the weight of grief that settled on her shoulders.

Something sticky dyed the skin of her hand red, and Catherine almost vomited with the force of her anguish as she discarded a rock that had been stained with blood. She heaved aside yet another piece of debris-

-And gasped in horror at the gruesome sight that greeted her efforts. The smashed, broken body of Shadow had been pulverize almost beyond recognition, and Catherine had no doubt that it was the gore of Kurt's beloved steed that now clung to her fingers. A sob made her shoulders hitch; Shadow had been a faithful mount for both herself _and _Kurt, and while his death was a travesty, there was little time to waste when Kurt's own life was at stake. Catherine swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in her throat, and stuffed her sorrow into the corner of her mind. Grieving would come later.

Something large and black moved on the borders of Catherine's peripheral vision, and she momentarily abandoned her arduous task while turning her head for a better look.

The scene that she beheld sent a nauseating wave of both blind panic and wild hope surging through Catherine's every pore, and the grisly image was burned into her brain like a hot branding iron.

The battered, bloody form of Kurt Wagner lay face-down just inside the blast radius, his black duster torn and shredded by the monstrous blast. His hat was practically incinerated all the way down to its brim, and the scorched fibers of Kurt's hair were clearly visible to Catherine's naked eye. His trousers were now nothing more than ragged strips of cloth, made bloody and sodden by the lacerations on his skin, and his once-strong and sturdy arms now bore an assortment of deep cuts and ugly burns. The scorched, blackened skin oozed a viscous, yellow liquid of an almost unholy stench, and Catherine had to cover her nose as she hastened to his side. To even _attempt _describing the anguish Catherine felt at Kurt's wretched condition would be a futile exercise of such unbelievable magnitude that it borders on the absurd.

The ravenous vulture that had begun inspecting Kurt as a prospective meal took to the sky with a frightened squawk, and Catherine's trembling hands gripped the now-pocked and scarred butt of Kurt's Winchester so as to deter any other scavengers. But in reality, she could have cared less about the dangers this hostile environment presented. All that mattered in the entire universe right now was Kurt.

Grunting with effort, Catherine gripped her unconscious friend by his shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

What she saw next hit her like a .22 slug. Never in her wildest dreams could Catherine have predicted _this._

The crimson bandanna that had for so long concealed Kurt's face was gone, either vaporized by the detonation or torn away and carried off by the wind. It took only a moment's observation for her to understand implicitly why Kurt had gone to such extraordinary lengths to hide his appearance, for his skin was neither white nor red nor black, but a dark, navy _blue!_ Both Kurt's scalp and the rest of his body was covered with a layer of matching hair or fur, and its texture was not coarse or rough, but rather reminiscent of velvet. Kurt's fangs-_fangs!-_protruded like glinting daggers even when his mouth was closed, as it was now, and their ivory surface reminded Catherine of the elephant tusks she'd seen in museums, but on a much smaller scale. Kurt's hand, too, was twisted and seemingly deformed, for the torn remnants of the leather glove that had concealed it now showcased a set three blunt, rectangular-shaped fingers.

Something twitched spasmodically underneath Kurt's bulk, and Catherine's horror was only deepened as she beheld a demonic, spaded _tail _that seemed to have sprouted from Kurt's pants. It was writhing like a wounded snake, and she felt sick just _looking _at it! No wonder Kurt had covered almost every inch of his body, Catherine chided herself, her disgust and horror turning to sympathy. Surely _she'd _have done the same thing had she been in his position.

Catherine shook her head vigorously. Questions could be put on hold until after Kurt woke up. _If _he woke up, a clinical, detached part of her brain corrected, and the prospect of _that_ was looking decidedly slim. Pushing her hair over her shoulders, Catherine leaned in close to Kurt's nose and mouth and listened desperately for any signs of life.

There were none.

Panic seized her once more, and Catherine's brain began running on autopilot as it formed a desperate plan. Having kept the company of several personal physicians over the years, she began to recall a relatively new method that had been introduced to medical science not long ago, one that held a chance, however remote, of averting Kurt's demise.

In modern times, it has become known as CPR.

Catherine's heart pounded a relentless tattoo in her chest as she laced her fingers together, placing them in the middle of Kurt's torso and tilting his chin upward to facilitate air flow. Then, with all the strength she had left, Catherine forsook propriety and pressed her lips to Kurt's. Air flowed from her lungs to his, and Catherine felt her cheeks become damp as her hands pressed downwards.

"Don't you die on me, Kurt Wagner," she sobbed, her voice stern and panicked at the same time. Again, Catherine pressed her mouth against his, and again a wave of life-giving oxygen was exchanged just before she pressed down upon his chest, _hard._

"Don't make me bury you out here, with your grouchy attitude-"

Again, Catherine's fingers pushed as she breathed air into his mouth yet again.

"-And your snide comments-"

The process was yet again repeated.

"-And your foul language!"

Her body exhausted, Catherine knelt desperately and once more cocked an ear for the telltale wind that was customary of human respiration.

Nothing. All semblance of self-control was lost as Catherine Pryde slumped against the body of her friend, sobbing quietly while her grief consumed her. Her tears reflected the merciless glare of the sun that shone overhead, and the bitter drops of anguish flowed as freely as any river.

But then something stirred the wisps of brown hair by Catherine's earlobe, a tiny gust of such weakness that it could easily have gone unnoticed. So soft and quiet was Kurt's labored breath that, had Catherine allowed her focus to shift even for a moment, it would have slipped by entirely. But now, as it was, she felt fireworks of joy explode in her chest. Kurt was _alive!_

Then, another, stronger breeze was exhaled through Kurt's blue nostrils, and Catherine almost sobbed in relief, throwing her arms around him and pressing her head to his heart so as to hear its rhythmic beating for herself. The faint but steady tattoo that sounded in Catherine's ears was the sweetest music she'd ever heard.

From where he lay injured and bloody, Kurt blearily opened his golden eyes as she held him closer. The mutant's soft fur was, to Catherine, rather similar to that of a stuffed toy bear, and she gripped Kurt's tired form as firmly as any child would his favorite toy.

Of course, most teddy bears didn't carry weapons or swear like sailors, but the principle was the same.

Kurt Wagner's voice was exhausted and strained, and he apparently had yet to notice that his disguise was no longer intact. One cannot fault him for this, though, as such an abrupt return from the netherworld would almost certainly addle one's mind momentarily.

His golden eyes met Catherine's brown ones. "You're…such a…smart-ass, ya know that?" he croaked. "Insultin' a man…on 'is deathbed…it ain't right…"

She laughed, still crying, genuinely relieved that Kurt's attitude had not deserted him. "Welcome back," Catherine said simply.

"R-Really?" Kurt looked genuinely surprised. "I never thought…anyone'd miss me…"

"You thought wrong," she replied, her tone gentle. "_I _would."

A little more of Kurt's mind seemed to clear, and the absence of his mask made him bolt upright, but then he gritted his teeth and hissed at the sudden stress on his broken body. Relief turned to shame, and he tried to hide his exposed features with his equally exposed hand.

"Don'…lookit me…Catherine…" Kurt rasped, seeming to slump in defeat. "I don'…want ya…t'see me like this…"

Overwhelming sympathy flooded through her, and Catherine's eyes were kind as she gently took Kurt's hand in her own. The girl's touch was gentle, as one would be with a scared child, and she never took her eyes from his as Catherine Pryde slowly pushed Kurt's hand aside.

"It matters not how you may appear," she said, her voice both firm and compassionate. "You will always be the same to _me_, Nightcrawler. I _don't _think any less of you, and you better not forget it."

"Yer startin'…t'sound…like me," Kurt told her, a hint of pride in his voice. "An' I tol' ya already…not t'call me that…"

"I decided to take a leaf out of your book and do it anyway," Catherine teased back.

"Where's…Shadow?"

She hesitated. "Dead," Catherine said finally. "He was crushed by the rockslide. I…I'm sorry, Kurt."

He clenched his fist tightly. "That sonofabitch is gonna _pay."_

"I'm sure he will, but as of right now our greatest priority is to make sure you _live _long enough to do that," Catherine told him, straining as she tried to pick him up. "You're too heavy to carry. I'll see if I can find something to make a stretcher."

Kurt's erstwhile friend vanished momentarily into a nearby ditch, and his tone was almost proud as he began to slip into an exhausted slumber.

"Well, I'll be damned. She _is _good at this…"

A/N: Well, looks like the secret's out! XD But will Kurt recover in time to complete his mission? Will Deadpool come back and finish him off? And will Catherine _ever _reach San Francisco? Find out in coming chapters! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW! ^^

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	9. Chapter 9

El Diablo del Oesto

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 9: Kurt Comes Clean

_Ow._

That was the first thing that came to Kurt's mind as he regained consciousness, and he followed up this simple thought with about a minute and a half of silent, unprintable obscenity, bemoaning his wretched condition whilst his body burned with a desire for vengeance.

Shadow, Kurt's beloved steed, had died at the machinations of his master's nemesis, Deadpool. The simple fact was hard, remorseless and cruel, and Kurt felt an iron-clad fist grip his heart like a vise as he quietly mourned his faithful horse in the light of the dying fire.

Had he not been possessed of such pride, and had Catherine been elsewhere at the time, Kurt would have cried bitter tears into the wee hours of the morning. Shadow had been his only companion during all those dark and lonely years in the vast wilderness, a quiet bastion of loyal support. How ironic, that Kurt had felt from an animal the affection and love that, until Catherine's arrival, he'd never received from another human being. So many memories….so many adventures….

Shadow had always brought his master through danger unharmed, and now Kurt's ever-loyal horse had paid the ultimate price for its fidelity.

Kurt silently vowed, with every ounce of strength he yet possessed, that Deadpool would pay in _blood _for what he'd done. Come Hell or high noon, his arch-enemy would answer for what he'd done that day in the canyon, and Shadow would rest in peace as soon as the madman drew his final breath. Deadpool would beg for mercy like the cowardly swine he was, and Kurt would deny him.

His vengeance would be swift and painful. The world was no longer large enough for the two of them to walk upon it. Neither Kurt nor his mortal enemy could truly live until the life of one or the other was extinguished.

Kurt was of a mind to take his mind off of his injuries and heartache by entertaining himself with fantasies of putting a bullet in Deadpool's brain, but Catherine Pryde's speech dashed any notions of violent entertainment. Her honeyed tones were as good as a whiff of rank tobacco smoke for snapping Kurt out of his misery.

Though it could have been a by-product of Kurt's semi-conscious state and the gravity of his wounds, he nonetheless looked on, mesmerized, as she went about her ministrations, humming quietly to herself all the while. The sweet music Catherine made without even moving her lips was as life-giving as a cup of cold water on a hot day. Some romantic part of Kurt's mind that had miraculously survived the hardening of his nature instinctively knew that he simply _needed _her, _needed _Catherine by his side as much as he needed the fresh air and the food in his belly, and possibly more. How his life had changed since this strong, courageous young woman had so abruptly come into his company! The scent of her hair, her laugh, her smile…they were intoxicating, like a sweet wine, and more and more Kurt found it an almost Herculean effort to keep himself focused when she was around him. What goddess of yore could compare to Catherine, who was so perfect to him in every way? What woman could so completely embody the spirit of determination and quiet strength he saw in Catherine's eyes, those eyes that ensnared him like a fisherman's hook? What _was _it about her that made even the most mundane of actions, like brushing a strand of hair from her face, seem so utterly refined? How could Da Vinci and Michelangelo even _hope _to capture Catherine's perfection in their works of marble stone? Such were the raw strength and power of Kurt's feelings for her, and these often left him dazed, frustrated and confused when the day was done.

It was the first time he'd really _cared _about another human being. Certainly Kurt had never known such warmth back home, under the thumb of his abusive father. Nor had he felt any semblance of loyalty or devotion to the legions of employers who had contracted him for his services over the years. Kurt had long resigned himself to a life of loneliness, interacting with the world yet unable to truly be a _part _of it because of what he took such lengths to conceal. No one, Kurt had convinced himself, would ever want him for who he _was._

But Catherine had changed all of that.

Kurt had always been suspicious and distrusting of everyone, a by-product of his hostile childhood, and his coarse and gritty nature had been spawned from the years of suffering and revulsion he'd endured from those around him. The harsh cruelty of man at his worst had been burned into Kurt's personality from a very early age, and his faith in people was long discarded by the side of the lonely mountain trails. No one cared whether he lived or died, and no one would even bother to acknowledge his passing on the day of Kurt's eventual demise. He'd fully expected Catherine to flee for her own safety and leave him to his fate after the disaster in the canyon, and yet _she didn't._ Kurt was sure that Catherine would be repulsed by his appearance and drive him away like everyone else, and yet _she thought no less of him._ _Catherine _cared about him as a person even after his secret had been exposed, and her support of him seemed to have only grown stronger in the aftermath of Kurt's near-death experience.

And with Catherine came the possibility of a future that Kurt had for so long thought he'd been denied. It was a future with _her_, and perhaps children and even grandchildren after them. No matter how remote the chance might be, there was now a possibility that Kurt would not be alone when he departed from the realm of the living.

Kurt's head had for years hung heavy with weariness beyond his years, a bone-deep tiredness borne from so many long, dark and lonely years.

And they seemed to be legion, those days of struggle, each seeming to stretch into eternity. So many years, now.

Kurt let out a long, exhausted sigh.

_So many years…_

But, though Kurt was almost afraid to believe it, his life was slowly but surely beginning to change, as was his personality. Kurt could feel himself, slowly but surely, beginning to absorb the rays of hopefulness and warmth that _her _company bathed him in.

_Catherine _believed in him. _Catherine _cared.

That was more than Kurt could say for almost everyone else he'd ever known, save for his mother, but he'd been so young when she died that he hardly remembered her.

"Kurt?" Catherine seemed to suddenly be waving her hand in front of his face. "Are you all right? You're not getting dizzy, are you?"

"No," Kurt said blearily, trying vainly to keep his brain online as he looked up into her face. Catherine's brown eyes were tender, her touch kind and gentle as she twisted the scrap of cloth in a crude bowl of water that had been warmed over the open flame.

_So beautiful…_

The warm rag was damp in Catherine's slender hands, and she made small talk as she dabbed the material upon Kurt's wounds, especially his burned forearms.

"Are you feeling any better this evening?"

He glanced ruefully at his still-ravaged body, cursing the blackened flesh that even now gave off its putrid stench. "Not really."

She resisted the urge to hold her nose as Catherine dabbed up the yellow slime that Kurt's scorched skin was secreting. Her heart clenched at the heinous injuries, and she fought to force down the bile that rose in her throat. "Kurt…" Catherine said gently. "What is it that you are not telling me?"

"Ain't nothin' that I'm not tellin' ya," Kurt snapped. "Don' know what yer talkin' about."

"Yes, you do," Catherine replied, her tone a little firmer. "I suspect that you haven't been completely honest about what we're dealing with."

His eyes were shadowed, but Kurt seemed resigned to what he expected to happen. "An' now yer gonna go an' yell at me, is that it? Go ahead, then. I'm not stoppin' ya."

Her small hand cupped his face, and Catherine stared into his eyes so he could see the truth there. "I'm _not _angry with you. But I don't think keeping things from me has helped us at all so far, has it?"

"Yer better off not knowin'," Kurt warned her. "An' that's th'truth."

"Considering what we've _both _been through thus far, I think I can handle it."

Kurt shivered slightly under the touch of her warm skin, but then he took a deep breath and began speaking once more. "Fine. T'make a long story short, yer Ma an' Pa's mine is sittin' right on top o' th'biggest gold vein since the one they found back in '49. Some feller in San Fran wants that gold fer 'imself, but since yer the sole heir t'the entire establishment, he wants t'git ya outta th'way afore he buys it up. An' whoever that bastard is, he's hired an old enemy o' mine who's just itchin' t'put me in my grave afore I'm much older. I reckon he's th'one who set the trap fer me in th'canyon."

"And just who is this person? And who hired him?"

Something resembling fear crept into Kurt's voice. "Calls hisself Deadpool nowadays. Other than that I've ne'er known much about 'im. We 'ad a dispute in Dodge City a few years back, an' I suspect 'e ain't forgotten nor forgiven me fer cuttin' 'is face."

"You did _what?"_ Catherine was horrified.

"I was drunk," Kurt said defensively. "An' Deadpool done killed a friend o' mine right in front o' me."

"He seems to be a lot like you."

"_I ain't nothin' like 'im!" _Kurt snarled, but then he softened at the startled look on Catherine's face. "Let's jest say that Deadpool's much like myself, but widout my merciful nature an' sense o' fair play."

"Do Mother and Father know about all of this?"

"Prob'ly not. I think the feller 'oo hired Deadpool t'kill ya is gonna approach yer parents wid an offer either after yer gone or just afore."

"They will never sell," Catherine stated flatly.

"D'ya think that's gonna bother this guy? 'S likely he'll 'ave Deadpool murder the both of 'em, an' then buy th'mine at rock-bottom price when th'state auctions it off. Other than the two o' us, he's th'only one who knows 'ow much it's _really _worth_._"

She stared in shock, and Kurt couldn't help but smile smugly despite his hurts. "Tolja ya were better off bein' kept in th'dark."

Catherine glared at him. "If you want to start keeping score, be my guest. Now hold still."

She bent to her work again, cleaning his wounds with the tattered scrap that now served as a rudimentary tool of primitive first-aid. But perhaps Catherine dabbed a little _too _hard, and Kurt stiffened in shock and pain for a split second as the pain made him hiss.

"I told you to stay still," Catherine said, her voice chiding while her eyes danced with mischief. "Otherwise something like _that _will happen."

"Ya did that on purpose!"

"Did not!" Catherine's face was a picture of innocence.

"Ya did too!"

"Did _not!"_

"Ya did too, an' ya know it damn well!"

"I have no idea what you're referring to," Catherine smiled. "You must be mistaken."

"Yer a smart-ass, ya know that?"

"I learned from the best."

"_Step a little closer an' say that!"_

"Make me," Catherine said petulantly, poking her tongue out at him.

Kurt momentarily put aside his formerly smitten mood in favor of searching about desperately for something to throw. He reached out his hand, gasped in pain, and let the limb fall to the ground once more. "Goddammit..."

She thrust a bowl of something that was supposed to be soup into his arms, and Kurt almost gagged when Catherine forced a spoonful of the rancid mixture between his lips. "Eat," she said, either not noticing Kurt's discomfort or simply choosing to ignore it.

Kurt's face turned an unhealthy shade of bluish green, and he spat out the unholy fruits of Catherine's culinary atrocity into the dirt. "Whereja learn t'cook, in a prison?"

"Shut up and eat it," Catherine said irritably.

"You first," Kurt snickered. "Poetic justice, it is."

She shut him up by ramming another ladle of soup into his gullet. Kurt almost passed out at the noxious taste. "Gosh, and here I thought you were supposed to be the tough guy," Catherine mocked. "Who knew Kurt Wagner was such a picky eater."

"If'n ya think I'm lyin', go ahead an' try some o' that slop," Kurt growled. "Go on. I dare ya."

"Fine," she looked down her nose at him. "Maybe I will!"

Catherine took what was left of the spoon's contents and thrust it into her mouth-

"GURRRK!"

Kurt felt no end of satisfaction as he watched her stumble into the bushes, and when Catherine had returned from emptying the contents of her stomach, his voice was almost gleeful as he struggled to contain his hilarity.

"Th'score's now two t'one, my favor," he smirked. "It _is_ bad, ain't it?"

"For once, Kurt, I completely agree with you," Catherine shuddered. "I think I will pass on supper tonight."

He gestured toward the gunbelt that lay strewn over a boulder, along with what remained of Kurt's possessions. "Hand me a gun, will ya?"

Mystified, but curious to see what her friend was planning, Catherine obeyed and pressed the revolver's cold handle into Kurt's palm.

Almost haphazardly, he tilted his arm skyward and fired without seeming to aim at all.

A rapidly dying squirrel promptly fell into Catherine's lap.

"There's yer dinner," Kurt told her. "An' ya better be damn grateful for it. Take my knife and clean 'im afore ya put 'im over th'fire, an' ya better goddamn well leave some fer me, hear?"

"I will," Catherine told him, her tone sincere. "Thank you. But how did you know…?"

"That I'd hit somethin'? I didn't," Kurt said matter-of-factly. "But wid all o' those critters scurryin' around in them trees, yer bound t'hit something sooner or later."

Her stomach growled, and Catherine blushed as she drew the glittering blade of Kurt's knife from its embroidered leather sheath. "How do I 'clean' this?"

"First, ya gotta cut 'is head off."

"_WHAT?"_

"Then slice open 'is belly an' pull all out all th'guts an' other stuff."

"You can't be serious."

"When ya've done that, put 'im on a stick an' hold 'im o'er th'fire."

"You're disgusting."

"D'ya wanna eat or not?" Kurt snapped.

Catherine was silent for a moment, but then, with utmost revulsion on her face, she put the blade's edge to the unfortunate mammal's neck with trembling hands.

"Let's not ever have squirrel again…"

A/N: LOL! XD Gotta love that fluff, eh? But in the next chapter, we switch over to the villains' side of the story as Boss Platt, thinking Kurt and Catherine are dead, begins putting the next phase of his plan into action… And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

And by the way, here's a sneak peek at the next volume in the Historical KURTTY Series, which I'll begin working on once "El Diablo del Oeste" is finished:

_As the Roman Empire rules the world with an iron fist, the legendary Emperor Caesar Augustus sends for his eighteen-year-old niece to finally enter Roman high society. And because she will one day marry and bear the child who will succeed him as Emperor, Augustus places his only living relative under the protection of a singular individual. The one charged with her safety is Caesar's best man-at-arms, an ex-gladiator who is renowned for his mastery of weapons and his terrifying appearance. His true name is known only to a few, but all who live under the Imperial banner whisper tales of the legendary assassin and spy, "The Emperor's Hand…"_

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. Sorry for posting this chapter twice. I accidentally posted the wrong content the first time. My bad, guys. XD


	10. Chapter 10

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 10: The Moment You've All Been Waiting For

_San Francisco_

Boss Platt clutched a rolled cigar between two chubby fingers, rolling it idly as he lounged about in his luxurious office. The noxious tobacco fumes wreathed the whole room in smoke, and so great was the stench that even Deadpool made an effort to breathe lightly as he delivered his report.

"It's about time you got back," the businessman snapped haughtily. "I hired you to get rid of the girl, not to go sightseeing!"

"Yer more'n welcome t'hires some'un else," Deadpool glared right back. "Assumin' they don' rat ya out t'the law. I done what ya paid me to, Platt, now gimme th'rest o' my fee!"

With a look of extreme reluctance, the corpulent Platt slid a hefty bag of silver dollars across his desk. "The girl's dead?"

"Yeah, an' Wagner, too," Deadpool snickered. "Th'vultures will take care o' what's left o' him."

"And you're sure about that?"

"Wagner may be good, but 'e ain't immortal," the mercenary snorted. "I done dropped an entire mountainside on top o' him. Ain't no way he's gittin' up from that, an' th'girl neither."

Platt stood with a grunt, his belly wobbling pendulously. Deadpool had to refrain from snickering at the comical sight. "Then I think we should pay the Prydes a visit," his employer said, his eyes sparkling with greed. "I think I can get them to sell…one way or another."

Deadpool tried not to laugh out loud at Platt's pathetic attempt to look like anything other than an overstuffed pig, and made a show of holding the door open wide. "After you…_boss."_

The searing California heat made Platt shield his eyes as he struggled to heave his bulk into the carriage, mopping his brow with a piece of white cloth that resided in his coat pocket as beads of sweat began to roll down his skin. Platt hadn't been outside of his office during business hours in more than ten years, and the environment did not agree with him.

Finally, after a moment's grunting and pushing, the unscrupulous man at last seated himself in the stage's interior. The wooden wheels began to turn as the driver cracked the whip, and moments later, all that remained of the two men's presence was a rapidly disappearing cloud of choking dust…

_Meanwhile…_

In the wilderness of the Western mountains, Catherine Pryde's cooking was hardly getting any better. Kurt was of a mind to shoot himself if he had to endure another day of his companion's culinary atrocities, and this hardly improved his mood. The fact was that, with Kurt out of commission, the supply of available food was drastically reduced, and at the most inopportune of times to boot. The only thing that Catherine and Kurt could do was to endure on a subsistence diet until his injuries healed.

And, frankly, one can only eat squirrel for so long.

Aside from the food situation, which was beginning to grow dire, Catherine found herself, with each passing day, falling more and more under the peculiar spell Kurt seemed to cast upon her. The revelations that had followed the cataclysm in the canyon had had an enormous effect on her, though just what that effect happened to be Catherine was unsure.

Kurt's face, she thought, her mind flashing back to that one, singular moment when Kurt's long-kept secret had been so suddenly exposed. Blue skin, dark fur, fangs so white that they glittered like scimitars in the noonday sun. A tail, spaded and lashing, writhing like a wounded serpent before her astonished gaze. And those eyes, those golden, glittering eyes, had looked into Catherine's own with a despair and hopelessness that made her heart wrench.

Kurt had fully expected her to leave him to his fate, Catherine knew. That he had seemingly thought so lowly of her was at first insulting, but then she remembered how hard his upbringing had been. For most of his life, Kurt had, by and large, seen only the worst of what humanity had to offer. His faith in his fellow man had been so eroded that, even after all they had been through together, he still assumed that Catherine would abandon him and scorn him like everyone else.

But, slowly, Catherine sensed Kurt's ingrained cynicism and distrust beginning to fade. More and more, he was actually _smiling. _In slow degrees, the coarse, gruff edges that made him so cantankerous were beginning to vanish. Catherine was, at last, starting to see the man Kurt truly _was, _the person who had for so long been buried beneath all of those layers of loneliness and hurt.

She liked this new Kurt much, much better, and in more than one way.

Though he was certainly…_different, _Catherine felt that, in retrospect, Kurt's unique features were far less horrific than he'd made them out to be. He was actually…

He was actually rather handsome.

There was really no point in denying it further. Catherine was falling head over heels for the cowboy who had so suddenly come into her life. His build, his smile, the way his strong arms grasped her like a fragile flower…

The thought of being in Kurt's embrace, for _real,_ made Catherine weak in the knees. She was now certain, and utterly convinced, that Kurt was the only man for her. His barest touch made her skin feel so _alive, _and her stomach was quivery with anxiety whenever Kurt sat next to her. Everything about him seemed appealing, and Catherine could find no faults with Kurt, no matter where she looked.

To her, at least, he was perfect. Kurt was strong, determined and driven, yet capable of kindness and tenderness that seemed most uncharacteristic of a man of his trade. Just _thinking _about Kurt made Catherine's heart beat just a little bit faster, and her every waking thought was of _him._

There was no room for a wealthy city boy in Catherine's life, she knew. Her affections belonged only to the mercenary, the outwardly cantankerous yet surprisingly deep gun-for-hire who had stolen her heart and her breath away.

There would be no gentleman callers. There would be no arranged marriages.

There was only Kurt.

The only problem was how to go about _telling _him all this. Kurt was just about the most antisocial person Catherine had ever met, and it was very likely that he'd dismiss her feeling as nothing more than fanciful delusions. Catherine couldn't _bear _the thought of this happening, and thus she had sadly and quietly resolved not to risk her new friendship with Kurt by trying to turn it into anything else.

It _killed _her inside that Catherine could be so near him and not give voice to her feelings. Words could not even begin to describe the anguish Catherine felt at being so close, and yet so far from what she now desired more than anything else in the world.

Her eyes became sad, and this did not escape Kurt's notice.

"What's wrong?" he asked, in his usual gruffness. "Why're you goin' about mopin' like that?"

"Nothing," Catherine replied, a little too quickly. "It's…it's nothing. Really."

"Yer lyin'," Kurt stated flatly. "An' yer doin' a bad job about it, too. If'n yer gonna tell a lie, then tell a good one."

"You worry too much," Catherine said, trying to keep herself calm. "There is nothing that is troubling me." _At least, nothing I could tell you about._

"That so?" Kurt asked, his golden pupils searching her own.

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

"_Kurt!"_

"Whaddaya think I am, stupid?" Kurt asked her skeptically. "I bin doin' this job long enough to _smell _a liar, so don' keep tryin' t'deny what ye already know good and well. I'm gonna ask ya agin: what the hell has ya down like that? It's _my _job t'worry 'round here, not yers, see? So whatever it is, jest fergit about it fer now."

_Believe me, I'd like to,_ Catherine told him silently. Aloud, she said, "It is nothing that concerns you."

The cold and terse response made Kurt's shoulders sag somewhat, and Catherine mentally kicked herself. "Fine," he said simply, his own voice now distant. "Suit yerself."

_Great, now he thinks it's _his _fault, _Catherine thought despondently. _Is there _nothing _I can do right when he's around? His presence…distracts me so. I want to impress him but…_

_But we're from different worlds, he and I, _she realized. _I could never fit in his, and he in mine. We're too different from each other for anything to happen between us. We have _nothing _in common!_

The truth, to quote the old saying, certainly hurts, and this was no exception. The small exchange between them had, in its stark honesty, eroded any hopes Catherine had of a relationship with Kurt.

The young woman stood suddenly, and without a word she withdrew some distance from the camp so as to be alone with her thoughts and her misery. Anything to put some distance between herself and him, Catherine knew. Looking at Kurt was far too painful right now.

Catherine never noticed Kurt slowly rising to follow her.

She sat down upon the forest floor, strewn with dried leaves and pine needles, and Catherine promptly drew her knees up to herself as she tried vainly not to cry. "Why did I even bother?"

"I ask myself that question a lot, ya know."

Kurt's voice made her stand and turn around, and though bandaged and bruised, Kurt stared back at her with a steady gaze. "Especially since meetin' _you_," he added, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a dry smile. "Ya bin far more trouble than I ever coulda thought, ya know that?"

"You're too kind," Catherine replied bitterly.

"No, I ain't," he said, his voice hushed. "That's yer department, I think. I ain't never bin inclined t'give anyone charity up till now."

"Just go away."

"Why?" Kurt asked, his voice growing accusing. "First off, yer keepin' secrets. Now, I ain't gotta problem with _that_, seein' as how I kept more'n a few of my own, but now you bin've goin' outta yer way to avoid me, like ya did jest now! An' I'd like t'know why! I ain't done _nothin'_ t'deserve this, Catherine! I didn't say nothin' offensive back there so far as I know, so why're you actin' so cold-like? _What'd I do?"_

Catherine felt her heart break. She'd never taken the time to consider how she might have seemed to him as she dwelled on her newfound feelings, and now she hated herself for it. "Kurt…I…"

"Save it," he told her, waving his hand. "I ain't gonna force ya t'tell me anythin' ya don't want to, but I _would _at least like t'know what it is that's bin on yer mind fer while. I…I wanna help you," he finished, somewhat lamely. "I don' enjoy seein' ya like this, all mopey-like."

"I appreciate that," Catherine said, sniffing slightly. "And I'm sorry for acting the way I did. It's just…"

Her voice broke off. Catherine couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

Kurt held onto a nearby tree for support, and he favored one leg over the other as he limped closer to her. "Lemme guess," he said slowly and cautiously. "Yer feelin' confused, right? Ya got all o' these…_feelin's_, an' ya don' know what in the hell t'do about 'em. Ya hate keepin' em all bottled up inside, but yer also afraid o' what'll happen if'n ya don't."

She gazed at him bewilderedly, and Catherine's face turned scarlet as Kurt gently too her hands in his own. His own face had turned a much deeper shade of blue as well, and the navy color grew even darker as Catherine asked, bewilderedly, "How did you…?"

"How did I describe what yer feelin' so well?" Kurt asked quietly.

"Y-yes."

His eyes bored into her own with an almost burning sensation, and Kurt was more sincere about what he said next than anything he uttered before or since.

"Because I'm feelin' like that too," Kurt whispered huskily, his voice rough and raw with the force of his words. His velvety hand cupped her cheek gently, and Catherine felt her vision swim as he gently pulled her a little closer.

Then, with an almost endearing hesitation, Kurt leaned in and kissed her.

A/N: D'awww! Ain't that sweet! I thought the time had come to accelerate things a little, and I'm not just talking about our two heroes! In coming installments, Boss Platt puts the squeeze on the Prydes, and Kurt and Catherine come to terms with their feelings before they receive aid from an earlier acquaintance! And PLEASE REVIEW! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

The conclusion of this story lies just beyond the distant horizon…

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	11. Chapter 11

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 11: Quickening

_Prologue_

_San Francisco, days ago…_

_Boss Platt grunted with effort as he squeezed his bulk into the proffered chair, his distended belly hanging out over his legs. The ever-present cigar filled the room with its noxious fumes as Platt clutched it between two bulging, fat fingers, and he cleared his voice clumsily before beginning to speak._

"_Now, Mr. Pryde," Platt said, his voice falsely civil. "Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement, eh? I'm sure I can give you a fair price. You can even stay and work for me, at Platts and Platts, Inc."_

"_I am not interested in your money, nor am I convinced of any semblance of honesty that you pretend to have," Catherine Pryde's father snapped back from behind his desk. "How many times are you going to come in here and try to take away what is ours? We have worked this mine for over a decade, and there is not enough money in the world to convince me to give it up, especially to someone like _you!"

_Platt scowled, and began to protest, but Mr. Pryde cut him off. "I've heard all about you, Platt," he said grimly. "Working your employees to death, withholding wages, hiring local goons to act as slave drivers, and that's just the beginning! I'd do better trusting a serpent rather than a single word that comes out of your mouth."_

"_I am not here to debate work policies," Platt replied, his tone beginning to grow harsh. "At least _mys _strategy is working! I must say that I find myself confused as to why you'd hold onto this land, especially since you've continued to drop steadily in profits for the past year and a half!"_

"_How did you know about that?" Pryde snarled._

"_There is nothing that cannot be bought for the right price," Platt said smugly. "Though your initial profits from the first five years are still steep enough to keep you afloat for now, they won't last forever. Sooner or later, you'll _have _sell, and for a much lower price than what I'm offering. And besides," he added, "With the disappearance of your daughter out in the wilderness, there's no one else to hold the claim to this land, anyway."_

"_Catherine is…merely delayed," Mr. Pryde said. "She'll be here soon."_

"_I find that conclusion rather dubious."_

_Pryde waved a slip of paper in front of Platt's bulbous nose. "Then what is this, hmm?" he asked. "My wife and I received this letter from Catherine not two days back! She's on her way right now!"_

"_Impossible," Platt whispered, his face darkening._

"_What?" The other man growled, not missing the utterance. "Do you _know _something about this?"_

"_Of course not," Platt groaned, getting up from his chair. "I'll leave you to your affairs, then, but I shall impart to you a word of advice before my departure __."_

"_I don't care what you have to say, but I'll allow you your opinion if for no other reason than to be out of your presence!"_

"_The world of business is no place for idealists, Mr. Pryde," Platt said sadly, shaking his head with mock pity. "You must be ambitious, driven, and most importantly, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve your objectives. You frown upon the way my company works, but the fact is that one's subordinates and employees are merely rungs on the ladder to the top. You mustn't be afraid to step on them."_

_Platt slammed the door loudly, and Pryde sank despondently back behind his hardwood desk as the unscrupulous fat cat marched back outside._

_Deadpool was waiting for him, leaning against the far wall with the brim of his hat over his eyes._

"_I take it that your little meeting didn't work out so well?" the mercenary snickered._

_Platt turned to glare at him, and there was bloody murder in the obese man's eyes. "Idiot," he hissed, his tone venomous. "You incompetent, bungling __fool!__ The girl is still alive, and Wagner too, the way our luck is going!"_

"_WHAT?" Deadpool's face showed a momentary flash of fear. "How? When?"_

"_It's YOUR job to know those things, not mine!" Platt snarled. "Take as many of your thugs as you can, and FINISH THE JOB! I want Pryde and Wagner dead, NOW! I swear, if you fail to deliver on your end of the deal again, you're sacked, do you hear me?_

"_And I can say for certainty that you WON'T like the severance package," he added ominously. "Now get out of my sight, you wretch, and don't even THINK of coming back until you have Wagner's head in your saddle!"_

_Deadpool, fearing the wrath of Kurt's likely vengeance, was speeding away on his horse before Platt was even through talking._

_But they were both of them deceived._

_Mr. Pryde glanced slyly at the "letter" that lay upon his desk, convinced that he'd given a satisfying performance as the envelope's contents had instructed him. Platt had no way of knowing that his competitor knew far more than he was supposed to._

_And Platt couldn't have suspected that the handwriting upon the letter's surface was NOT Catherine's…._

Now…

Deadpool had a bored expression on his face as he strode through the burning wreckage that had once been the Chief's encampment.

The bandits had come like a firestorm, descending upon the unsuspecting Indians with unholy joy as they slaughtered, raped and pillaged to their heart's content. Fully a third of the proud man's people had been butchered like cattle, their homes destroyed and their livestock stolen. There was absolutely nothing that could have drawn the Native Americans back here, and the survivors had barely escaped with their lives.

Deadpool hadn't pursued them. This was only a pleasant side trip that had happened to come his way, and thus served only as a distraction from the job at hand.

All around him, the cutthroats under Deadpool's command fought savagely with one another, snarling and brawling over the ruins in their bid for the choicest spoils. Like rabid wolves they tore into each other with a frenzy, and more than one man was sent to his doom over a piece of pottery or a quiver of arrows.

A wave of his hand brought one of the mercenary's chosen lieutenants to him. "Tell those weevils to finish whatever they're doin' an' let's be outta here," Deadpool murmured. "We got other things t'do, after all, an' I ain't gonna be waitin' fer any stragglers, hear? Any man who falls behind is gonna 'ave t'fend fer hisself."

"Right," the other outlaw said, touching the brim of his hat respectfully before turning about and roaring out orders lustily. The words had an immediate effect, and the assorted rabble fell all over themselves in their haste. After all, being abandoned in the wilderness was hardly a favorable position to anyone.

Their leader gave a sigh of pure joy as he mounted the saddle once more, and he didn't even look behind him as he nudged the horse forward. The sun beat down upon Deadpool's brow as he caressed the handle of his pistol lovingly, anticipating the pleasure of _finally_ putting Wagner down for good.

The thunder of hoofbeats was so great that it made the earth tremble, and even Mother Nature herself seemed to shrink fearfully as the outlaw gang sped away from the bloodbath with Deadpool at the lead…

_Meanwhile…_

Catherine squeaked in surprise as Kurt kissed her with abandon, holding her close like some precious heirloom while his arms tightened around her. The grip was not uncomfortable, but rather firm and unyielding as a rock would be against the rushing tide. It was comforting, too, like the familiar embrace of a favorite pillow, or the well-thumbed pages of a beloved novel. Catherine's brain began to swim as she closed her eyes slowly, her very _bones _seeming to dissolve into putty whilst her knees quivered. It felt so…_right, _kissing him, some lucid part of her reflected. It felt as natural as walking and breathing.

Kurt drew her even closer, and Catherine could feel his thunderous heartbeat against her own as she pressed against him. The blood seemed to sing a joyous song as it coursed through her veins, and every part of her felt _alive _with electricity wherever Kurt's soft, furry hands touched. This feeling was…_extraordinary. _It was unlike anything either of them had ever felt before: Kurt was utterly mesmerized at how soft and precious Catherine seemed as he held her in his arms, and she, in turn, was overcome by the protected and safe sensation that Kurt's embrace gave her. She knew, with every ounce of humanity that she possessed, that Kurt would lay down his life without hesitation if it meant protecting his beloved Catherine.

The very _air _seemed to be still and quiet with awe at the simple yet powerful sight, a time-honored display of love and courtship that seemed to make the sun shine just a little bit brighter with the almost visible light it cast.

Kurt felt his heart soar to such a height that he feared it would come out of his throat. All of those dark and lonely years….If he'd known Catherine was waiting for him at the end of it, he'd have gone through all of it willingly. She had become so much _more _to him now.

She had become his world.

With visible reluctance, Kurt broke away and held Catherine's head to his chest, running his blunt fingers through her hair as he silently reaffirmed his undying love for her. Kurt then placed his chin on her shoulder, inhaling her scent like a wondrous perfume.

His voice was hoarse and rough with emotion.

"Catherine…" Kurt said simply, breathing the name like a magic spell.

"So I was wrong, eh?" A third, different voice, so sudden in its appearance, caused the two lovers to jump apart. Kurt's hand blurred toward his revolver-

-But alarm turned to confusion as the Chief smirked back at him. "See? I was right," he said, grinning. "She _is _your woman."

"What're ya doin' 'ere, huh?" Kurt asked, his tone respectful but wary. "An' how'd ya find us?"

"It was not difficult," the Chief consoled him. "You may be a great man among others of your breed, bounty hunter, but no living person can outrun the best tracker of our tribe."

At a wave of his hand, the old man summoned a young brave from the surrounding forestry. "I believe you remember my son, Warpath?"

"Vividly," Kurt said dryly, meeting the warrior's gaze without flinching. "But ya still ain't answered my other question. I ain't inclined t'believe that our meetin' was a coincidence, see? Yer seekin' me out, an' I wanna know why."

The Chief's eyes grew sad. "We have come to offer our aid."

"Come again?"

"Three nights past, our home was set upon by outlaws," the Chief intoned gravely. "They slaughtered any and all in their path, and put our ancestral home to the torch. They killed so many of my people…" his eyes glazed over with grief for a moment. "Women and children, Nightcrawler. They killed the old, the young, and the infirm, laughing while they murdered my sons and daughters before I was singled out as leader. Then, one who called himself Deadpool interrogated me for information…about _you._

Kurt's face turned somewhat pale as the old man continued. "I still owed a debt to you for sparing Warpath, so I lied and told him nothing. Deadpool went to get a branding iron to torture me, but I kicked him in the knee and used the hot metal to burn through the ropes that bound me and set the tent on fire. The distraction caused great panic among the wild men, and I used that distraction to make our escape."

"_Our _escape?" Catherine asked, shivers going up her spine.

"Yes…_Our _escape," the Chief thundered, raising his bulb-ended staff high in the air.

Catherine's breath caught in her throat at what happened next.

Slowly, deliberately, the last remnants of the Chief's tribe emerged from their hiding places, their steeds pawing the ground impatiently and snorting, as if lusting for blood. Stone-tipped spears, tomahawks, arrows bristled like the spines of some great hedgehog as the Native American host joined their leader, and the warriors' faces were turned into fearsome masks by the red, black and yellow war paint they sported. Their expressions grim, their weapons clutched tightly, the massed ranks of horseman and foot soldiers stood in silent support with the Chief at their head.

The old man shook his stick for emphasis. "Your enemies are now _our _enemies, Nightcrawler," he said. "I shall have vengeance for the slaughter of my people at the hands of the one called Deadpool. We shall see him die, for we have no other cause to fight for now." Then, accepting a stone dagger from Warpath, the Chief sliced a shallow cut along the length of his palm and let the blood drip into the earth. "With this, I make a pact of allegiance," he whispered. "With this, we swear to bring about Deadpool's demise."

The knife was thrust into Kurt's hands, and he knew instinctively what he had to do. The stained blade again drew a shallow, red line along the furry palm of Kurt's own hand, and he held his clenched fist outward so his own blood would join the Chief's upon the loamy soil. "Wid this, I return yer allegiance wid my own," he swore. "Wid this, I vow t'give ya th'revenge ya seek."

Then Kurt extended his hand, and the two men clasped each other by the forearm in a warrior's handshake so that each left his red mark upon the other.

"We have an accord," the Chief murmured.

Kurt didn't hesitate.

"Agreed…"

A/N: Hello, everyone! Before I say anything else, I want to apologize for the fact that this update took a little longer than usual. For those of you who were left wondering, I shall impart the reason for my absence with a single word: school. _ My classes this week have been busier and more demanding than I could have anticipated, and thus my studies have greatly cut into my writing time. I apologize, to _all of you,_ for this inconvenience, and I thank you all for patience and, (I hope) your understanding and forgiveness. It just about KILLED me to leave you all hanging (Anahbell, this one goes out to you), and know that if I had found _any_ possible time slots in which to update, I would have done my utmost to take advantage of them. Rest assured that I will NOT leave this story, or any other Historical KURTTY fic, unfinished. The next chapter WILL be up either Thursday or Friday, come Hell or high water!

Again, I can only offer my utter sincerity in this promise, and in this apology.

I remain, and shall ever be,

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


	12. Chapter 12

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 12: Shootout!

_The California Border_

Deadpool and his band of savage cutthroats left a trail of choking dust in their wake as the infamous mercenary thundered further and further down the road, which was in and of itself little more than an animal track that someone had paved over with rough granules of stone. The hooves of their horses pounded the earth like the monstrous throb of some enormous drum, and when Deadpool glanced behind over his shoulder to find himself at the head of such a fearsome band, he felt almost invincible. After all, the "ferocious" Native Americans that Deadpool had heard so much about had in fact turned out to be peace-loving pushovers, and with the destruction of their home came another tally mark on Deadpool's laundry list of villainy.

There was nothing that could stop him now, Deadpool thought, smiling smugly. With so many men at his beck and call, Wagner was as good as dead. The villain took a moment to fantasize about pissing on his enemy's grave for a moment, sighing like a contented kitten at the pleasure such a notion brought him. Yes, Wagner would perish, and so would the girl that Boss Platt was so eager to have removed.

Wrong, as it turned out.

Dead wrong.

_Meanwhile…_

From his vantage point atop a piece of stone that jutted out from the side of the cliff, Kurt Wagner's entire face suffused with hate as he saw the telltale dust cloud heading his way. His blue, furry fingers gripped the butt of his rifle as the Grim Reaper would hold his scythe, and Kurt's soul sang an angry, joyous song at the glorious feeling of impending vengeance. Even his _teeth _chattered like castanets with the force of his rage, but the Chief put a gentle, restraining hand on his shoulder so as to prevent any hasty action.

"Wait for the opportune moment," the old man said. "They are not yet in range."

"How'd ya know they'd be comin' this way?" Kurt asked, attempting to distract himself from the sheer hate that boiled in his veins.

"We know every tree and rock for miles around," the Chief grinned. "The only other way through this forest is through the mountains, and no one dares to try climbing the cliffs on horseback."

"I did," Kurt pointed out, referring to their first meeting.

"True," the Chief arched an eyebrow. "And if the one called Deadpool had done the same, we would have captured him and all of his men in the same manner. Nothing moves in these mountains without my hearing about it."

"He came up from farther south, then?"

"I believe so."

"I'd rather ya stayed back at camp," Kurt continued, addressing Catherine as she stood by his side. "It'd be better if'n ya didn't see this."

"Your concern for my welfare is touching," she replied, her tone warm but her eyes flinty. "But my place is here, with you, wherever that might be."

Warpath, sporting a crutch due to the permanent injury Kurt had inflicted on his ankle, limped up to his father with bow and arrow in hand. "Enough talk! Let us kill those monsters and be done with it!"

Kurt's golden eyes narrowed as the riders rounded the bend, and, laying flat upon his stomach, he took aim down his weapon's barrel.

It was but the work of a moment for the mutant to pick a target and pull the trigger.

_BANG!_

The rider just behind and to the right of Deadpool's horse fell from the saddle like a fallen tree, his head gushing blood from the bullet that had fractured his skull. The villain's steed whinnied in panic, rearing up on its hind legs, and the outlaws hastily reached for their weapons-

_SsssssssssTHUNK!_

A stone-tipped arrow, fletched with the feathers of an eagle, punched through the throat of another rider. He grasped at the shaft, feebly tugging on the rough wood in a vain attempt to remove it from his body, but then he collapsed forward and died with a choking gurgle.

"What was that?" Deadpool demanded.

"I dunno," another bandit said, scratching his hat. "Maybe it's-gurrrrggghhh…."

A long throwing spear seemed to sprout from the man's chest like some grotesque tree, and then all hell broke loose. This was personified by Kurt, who in his rage quite simply went apeshit.

Throwing his rifle aside, the mutant leapt upright and drew the ebony-handled pistols that he wore at his hips, his tattered cloak flying behind him as he began skidding down the rock-strewn hillside in total disregard for his own safety. Kurt looked his mortal foe straight in the eye as he cocked the pistols' hammer back with his thumbs and fired.

That seemed to be some sort of signal, for everyone on both sides began discharging their weapons as well.

Deadpool drew his own six-shooters in a blur of motion, turning his horse sideways and firing up into the canyon walls. A Native American brave screamed and clutched his belly, his bow and quiver falling to the ground as he collapsed in death, but no sooner had the warrior breathed his last than one of his companions sent an wickedly barbed shaft _thudding _into the side of Deadpool's mount. The horse screamed in a high-pitched whine as it instantly keeled over-

-And crushed Deadpool's leg beneath its bulk with a sound reminiscent of a twig snapping.

The villain screamed in pain as his femur was reduced to splinters, and Deadpool was only able to tug vainly at his injured limb for a moment before the agony of his wound robbed him of consciousness.

It was just as well that he didn't see what happened next.

Kurt didn't even break his stride as his boots touched the earth at the mountain's foot, and his gaze was completely merciless as he fired steadily into the surviving members of Deadpool's gang. Twelve shots claimed twelve lives, and when the chambers of his weapons were empty, Kurt tossed them aside and threw himself onto the outlaws with savage fury. The mutant's eyes glittered with menace, their amber pools reflecting the glow of the noonday sun as Kurt Wagner tore his mask away. He laughed wildly, almost drunkenly, before entering the fight almost gleefully.

One man, his shotgun emptied, swung the butt at Kurt's head in a bid to crush his skull in two. But Kurt merely turned his head to one side so as to let the makeshift club _whoosh_ by his cheek, and on the rebound he lunged and stabbed the outlaw so many times that his guts began leaking out from beneath his belt, the soft innards shredded like vegetables in a Cuisinart. Kurt the grabbed the fallen man's firearm and, slamming a shell into its barrel, proceeded to blow a fist-sized hole in the chest of another. Dropping the shotgun almost contemptuously, Kurt swiped the dead man's pistols and crossed his arms over his chest, killing two of Deadpools thugs at once before shooting another point-blank in the forehead and blowing out the back of his skull.

A circle of leering, bewhiskered faces closed in on him from all directions, the barrels of their weapons trapping Kurt in a ring of remorseless steel as the air resounded with a series of ominous _clicks._

The rain of arrows abruptly ceased, for the Chief feared hitting Kurt by accident when the mutant was in such close proximity with the enemy. This, by the way, was exactly the outlaws' intention, and a particularly nasty-looking fellow sniggered as he put his pistol to Kurt's temple.

"Go to Hell, Wagner."

Kurt didn't even so much as look them in the eye.

"_You first_."

In a space of time to small to measure, Kurt swiftly brought his arms up and emptied his weapons into the ranks of his supposed tormentors with a deafening series of cacophonous _BANGS._ It was but the work of a moment for the air to grow thick and heavy with the reek of spent powder, and all Catherine could see of her friend in the murky haze was the luminescent, almost demonic glow of Kurt's eyes.

Then, one by one, the last remnants of Deadpool's once-vaunted gang fell, slain, to the dusty red Earth, their eyes glazing over as the Angel of Death swept them away to the infernal blazes.

The entire confrontation had taken less than ten minutes, and Catherine felt both awed and terrified to realize just how dangerous Kurt could be when the situation required it. Her breath caught in her throat as the Native Americans gave a great cry, pouring down the slopes and roaming through the corpses, their hatchets splitting open the skulls of any outlaws who still drew breath. There would be no prisoners taken here.

Warpath raised his hand to part Deadpool's hair with his tomahawk, but Kurt stayed his blade.

"I need 'im alive, fer now," he said. "This 'un's got information that I need."

"Shall I wake him?" Warpath asked.

"If'n ya don' mind."

A swift kick to Deadpool's ruined leg caused him to wake with a scream, and Kurt knelt down so as to look his enemy in the eye.

The mutant's voice was dripping with menace. "Yer gonna do a little fast talkin', see? I got questions an' you got answers, an' if'n ya speak truthfully, well…mebbe I'll be lenient, eh?"

It was safest to nod, so that's what Deadpool did.

"Who hired ya?" Kurt asked flatly. "Who paid ya fer th'hit on Catherine? Who's behind all o' this?"

Any other man would have been terrified by the prospect of imminent death, but Deadpool, being mentally unstable, kept a smirking tone in his voice as he stared up at Kurt. "I ain't sayin' nothin', Wagner. You an' I both know that folks like us 'ave one rule: client confidentiality."

Kurt dug his spurs cruelly into the flesh of Deadpool's broken leg, and the villain sobbed for breath as his captor ground the sharp metal deeper and deeper.

"Mebbe I should jest hand ya o'er t'_them_, eh?" Kurt asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "I imagine my friends 'ere would like t'have a few words wid yer."

Deadpool's face lost what little color it had retained. Death may not have frightened him, but the mere _thought _of the excruciations he'd have to endure at the hands of the vengeful Native Americans served to loosen his tongue. "Yer sayin' you'll lemme go?" he asked, bewilderedly.

"It couldn't hurt yer chances."

"Platt," Kurt's enemy said instantly. "Jacob Platt, or Boss Platt, as 'e's more commonly known. He 'as an office in San Fran, an' he hired me t'git rid o' _her_ so 'e could buy out the Prydes. He wants th'mine, see, on account o' th'fact that there's a mountain o' gold sittin' right underneath it."

"_What?"_ Catherine gasped. "You can't be serious!"

"I ain't got no other choice but t'be serious," Deadpool said dryly. "An' I say it's on'y a matter o' time afore yer folks hit th'jackpot."

Kurt said nothing in reply as he stood once more, and Deadpool's face reflected confusion and then panic as he called after him, "What about our deal, eh? Ya said ya'd lemme go!"

"I said _I'd _be lenient," Kurt corrected him coldly, nodding at the warriors who were now forming a circle around the crippled mercenary. "I ne'er said nothin' about _them._"

Kurt nodded respectfully at the Chief as the old man gave him the reins to a spare horse. It wasn't Shadow, Kurt knew, and no horse could ever take Shadow's place, but he needed a mount in order for him and his companion to reach San Francisco in any reasonable length of time.

The mutant's voice was flat whilst Catherine clambered up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "He's _all yours_…"

The circle of stone spear-tips closed in on the infamous Deadpool, and the last thing Kurt Wagner ever heard from his longtime nemesis was one long, agonized scream…

A/N: Dude, that's COLD! XD But Deadpool TOTALLY had that coming! The last chapter of this story will be up VERY soon, but on a different note, I seem to have run into a slight problem. Until now, I had planned on beginning the completion of the next volume in this series, "The Emperor's Hand," following the final chapter of "El Diablo del Oesto." But last night I was struck with inspiration for a TOTALLY awesome Danny Phantom fic, which is tentatively called, "Shadows of the Past." The summary reads as follows:

_When Danny shows contempt for his American History class, he unwittingly angers the powerful Clockwork. The Keeper of Time, decides to let Danny experience history "firsthand," and thrusts him over two hundred years into the past. Danny then finds himself in the middle of Colonial America at the height of the Revolution! And after being abruptly conscripted as a foot soldier into the Continental Army, the ghost boy begins to look at history in a whole new light..._

As you can imagine, I'm REALLY PSYCHED about this idea, but on the other hand, I fear disappointing you all. So my question is this: would you all be willing to wait a little bit longer for the next Historical KURTTY story? I've already got some AWESOME stuff planned for this DP fic (It's gonna be DRIPPING with history and epic battles and all sorts of cool things), and even if you're not very familiar with the show, I really think you'll all enjoy it! My hope is to publish "Shadows of the Past," and then complete "The Emperor's Hand," followed by the final volume in the KURTTY Series, "Devil of New Jersey." Would you all find that agreeable?

I beseech you, please allow me this one favor, and I swear that I shall promptly return to you all after "Shadows of the Past" has been completed. Quintillius Numerion Inque III _NEVER _abandons his readers, and he _always _keeps his promises!

As yet the readers' faithful servant,

-Quill N. Inque

P.S. In case any of you are curious, Danny WILL have his powers in this story, and historical versions of the DP cast will also be making


	13. Chapter 13

El Diablo del Oeste

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 13: Home at Last

The burgeoning metropolis of San Francisco had never seemed more welcoming than it did to a thoroughly bedraggled and tired Kurt Wagner as he nudged his exhausted horse through the unpaved city street. The animal's head hung low, as if weighted down by invisible chains, and the slow _clip-clop_ of its hooves mirrored its master's weariness.

The journey had taken its toll, to be sure.

Kurt Wagner stank. After the final clash with Deadpool, he'd pushed himself and his horse _hard._ The need to complete the last leg of his exodus to San Fran had been so great that Kurt had never stopped in any one location for more than sixty minutes. Catherine's arrival at her family's home was of utmost importance now that she was no longer in danger from Deadpool and his cohorts, and so Kurt had almost broken himself in his last, final push. Unfortunately, now that the wilderness and all the dangers contained within were behind him, Kurt was now paying the price for his hurry.

His clothes were scorched, tattered and torn, his black duster reduced to nothing more than a rag, and his trousers bore a variety of slashes and cuts from the enormous wear and tear they'd born in the Prydes' service. A noticeable chunk of the brim of Kurt's hat was conspicuously missing, and the red bandanna that had resumed its position over his face threatened to fall apart at any moment.

Kurt's body had fared even worse than his accoutrements.

He was tired, and Kurt's arms and legs hung heavy with a leaden exhaustion that seemed to seep into Kurt's very bones. His legs and arms bore a variety of half-healed bruises and lacerations, and the scorched, charred skin on Kurt's forearms was still wrapped in filthy bandages. Kurt now bore a new scar above his left eye and another one just above his chin, and he had no doubt that these were not the only souvenirs of Deadpool's hospitality. In addition, Kurt had practically starved himself during the frenzied exodus into California, surreptitiously giving Catherine most of his food so as to keep her own strength up. This had worked, for she was now as healthy as a newborn foal, but Kurt now hung perilously close to serious malnutrition.

He didn't care. Kurt would have gone smiling to his grave if it had been for Catherine's sake. She was _everything _to him. Nothing else mattered to him anymore.

What earthly pleasure could buy the happiness he felt when she was by his side? What currency of paper or metal could purchase the love Kurt felt in his chest when he looked into her eyes? Money, which Kurt had spent most of his life trying to acquire, now seemed paltry compared to what he now possessed.

For the first time, Kurt _loved._

Be not misled by the massive overuse of that word in today's society. This was _love_ in its most natural and untainted form, the extraordinary and all-consuming fire that for time immemorial has driven one man to take on armies and emerge victorious all the same.

He'd never been so _happy_ before, but Kurt's joy was tempered with unfathomable sorrow.

He knew, deep down, that this was where he'd have to let Catherine _go._

Rebellious tears made his vision blur, and Kurt felt anguish pierce his soul with red-hot needles as he imagined Catherine, _his _Catherine, in the arms of another. It was more than likely that Mr. and Ms. Pryde already had some nice young businessman lined up for her, and Kurt scrubbed furiously at his face as Catherine's angelic tones sounded in his ear.

"We made it," she said.

"Yeah," Kurt said, trying to smile, but his mind was somewhere else. "Where's yer parents' place at?"

"Give me the reins," Catherine snorted, but there was no anger in her tone. "I'm driving."

Kurt handed the strips of leather to her without protest, his eyes sparkling with amusement at how strong Catherine had turned out to be. It was not everyday a person strutted about giving _him _orders, after all.

_Meanwhile…_

At the singe-story, solid little wooden building that housed the headquarters of the Prydes' mining company, Catherine's parents went about the day-to-day task of keeping their business running without the usual enthusiastic zeal that had for so long characterized the workday.

Mr. Pryde slouched at his desk, its varnished surface covered with papers, but the pen he held in his hands doodled aimlessly in the corner rather than fulfilling its intended purpose. The man was far too anxious to get any kind of work done right now, for a single, powerful thought made his head buzz like an angry beehive.

Catherine was coming home.

It had been almost a week ago that a strange old man, a Native American by his dress, had ridden into town at the head of a mighty warband, a gnarled staff clutched in his wrinkled fingers. The citizens of San Francisco had panicked and run, convinced that this was a raid or some kind of attack, but the elder had instantly held his hand out in the universal gesture of peace.

An uneasy silence had pervaded the townsfolk, and the old man had ridden calmly through the city street until he came to the doorstep of Catherine's parents.

Mrs. Pryde had shouted with alarm at the Native American chieftain who so suddenly had come to call, but the old man's gentle expression had been sufficient to convince her husband to open the door a fraction.

"I am not here to harm you," the Chief had intoned. "I bring a message for he who bears the name of Pryde. Are you the man I seek?"

Catherine's father spoke somewhat reluctantly, fearing for his life but knowing he had no other choice. "I am," he said in a shaky voice. "What is this message?"

"Your daughter is coming," the old man had told him simply. "The mercenary called Wagner is escorting her. They will be here soon."

"How do you know this?"

"Because it was Wagner who asked me to pass this word on to you," the Chief had replied, his eyes honest. "He says that her safety will soon be assured, and that vengeance shall come on swift wings to the one who caused your daughter to suffer so."

"He didn't say who this man was, did he?" Mr. Pryde snorted.

"Nope," the Chief had grinned. "He is an introverted fellow, I believe, but a good man nonetheless. May the spirits and the seasons smile upon your daughter's future," he'd added, clambering back up onto his horse. "For she has found joy in the love for another."

With that statement, the Native Americans had departed as suddenly as they'd arrived, and the days and nights until Catherine's expected arrival had seemed to drag on forever as Mr. Pryde and his wife slowly came to terms with what the Chief had said.

Mrs. Pryde seemed to sense what he was thinking. "You think she's fallen for the gun-for-hire, this Wagner fellow, don't you?"

"I do," he admitted. "And I can't say I relish the idea of our Catherine marrying off to one of his breed, but still…"

"…He doesn't seem that bad a sort, does he?" his wife finished.

"No, he doesn't," Mr. Pryde agreed. "I'm not fond of bounty hunters and mercenaries, but it would not be fair or right to dismiss Wagner after everything he's done for our daughter's sake. I'll hear him out, and then we'll decide what needs to be done."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that," Mrs. Pryde said warmly, kissing him on the cheek. "And you're a good man for treating him fairly, love."

"I do try," he agreed, smiling back at her. The patriarch of the Pryde family turned once more to his work-

_Knock, knock, knock._

Beneath the sign that displayed the adage, "Pryde Mining Incorporated," Kurt Wagner shuffled nervously as he heard feet pounding within the dwelling's walls. He vainly tried to make himself appear somewhat presentable, but the dirt and grime that had accumulated on Kurt's body made this an exercise in absurd futility. A nervous gulp made his Adam's apple rise and fall, and the blunt fingers on Kurt's hand twitched restlessly.

Catherine placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed in silent reassurance as her friend slowly removed the last remnants of that hateful mask. "Don't be nervous," she said, taking his hand in hers. "You're just meeting my parents, not the President or anything."

"I may as well be," Kurt muttered. _There's no way yer father'll gimme 'is blessing, not when 'e sees what I really look like…_

The door opened suddenly, and Catherine flew into her father's arms as tears spilled of happiness spilled down her face. There are no words in English or any other language to describe the joy of the reunion between parent and child that day.

"My sweet, precious daughter," Mr. Pryde said hoarsely, running his hands through her hair and holding her tightly. "My little girl….Welcome home!"

"Catherine? Is that you?"

"Mother!" Catherine shouted before Mrs. Pryde gripped her in a bear hug.

"Don't you _ever _scare us like that again!" she scolded, though there was no hint of fury in the housewife's words. "What took you so long? Your stage left New York weeks ago!"

Catherine's smile shrank a little. "There were…complications, mother," she said, gesturing to the man who stood awkwardly under the veranda.

Kurt, for his part, felt distinctly out of place in such a joyous family atmosphere. Having never known such feelings in his own home, the sight of Catherine and her parents reuniting made him feel very uncomfortable, almost as if one such as he were not worthy to witness such a simple yet powerful display.

Then he realized that Mr. and Mrs. Pryde were staring at him.

Kurt's tail thrashed around his ankles, and he touched the brim of his ruined hat respectfully as Catherine's father spoke.

"_You're _Kurt Wagner?" Mr. Pryde asked, surprised.

"Yes, sir," Kurt replied, trying to keep his tone formal. "I am."

"You're certainly…not what I expected."

"I git that a lot, sir."

"It is my understanding that Catherine hired you to escort her for the remainder of her journey," Mr. Pryde continued. "Is that correct?"

"It is, sir."

"Then follow me into my study, and you'll receive your payment."

Kurt cleared his throat. "I don't want yer money, sir."

"Beg pardon?"

"I don' want any money fer doin' this here job," Kurt said. "Keep it."

"It's a hefty sum," Mr. Pryde warned.

"It ain't nothin' compared to what I gained on this here job, if only fer a liddle bit," Kurt's tone turned slightly melancholy, but he kept his eyes front and his face straight. "Keep the fee, sir. Use it fer Catherine's dowry when she gits married to some'un. I think it'll do more good that way."

Mr. Pryde felt his heart soften at Kurt's quiet admission of his affections and his sad yet firm resignation to losing Catherine to another. Clearly, Mr. Pryde realized, Kurt had fully suspected to be given his payment and turned away, never to see Catherine again. This obviously caused the misshapen man a great deal of pain, and yet Kurt was willing to forsake his own happiness in deference to the wishes of Catherine's parents!

Newfound respect for Kurt settled on Mr. Pryde's shoulders. He'd known many so-called "gentleman" who'd bribed and stolen and even killed each other in duels over a woman, and this Wagner fellow showed more honor than all of them combined.

Catherine's father glanced downward as his only child gripped Kurt's hand in silent affirmation.

"Come with me," he said, beckoning to Kurt. "I'd like to have short word with you, Mr. Wagner."

Kurt's expression crashed to the floor and his tail drooped as he followed Mr. Pryde indoors. Catherine's father didn't speak a word as he led his guest into his office, and after taking a seat in his chair, he said, "You really _are _smitten with her, aren't you? Don't deny it," Mr. Pryde warned. "I can see it in your eyes, you know. It's the same look I had when I met my wife for the first time."

"Yes," Kurt rasped, his throat suddenly dry with fear. "I…I love her," he said finally, shame in his voice.

"She feels the same way, you know," the older man replied.

"I'm aware o' that, sir."

"It would have been painful for her if you had ridden off so suddenly."

"She deserves better'n me," Kurt whispered, his voice mournful

"No, she doesn't," Mr. Pryde said flatly. "Talking to you for only five minutes was enough to convince me of that."

Kurt's eyes grew despondent before the old man's expression grew warmer. "I'm now convinced of the fact that you are indeed worthy of my daughter's hand. Though your appearance is…unique, to say the least, that brief exchange outside was more than enough to persuade me that you have only honorable intentions toward Catherine. And while I may have known you for only a moment, Catherine is astute and smart, and I trust in her judgment, as well as in yours. You risked your life, on multiple occasions, apparently, to keep her safe, and your actions on Catherine's behalf speak for your character."

Mr. Pryde reached into his desk and pulled out a velvet box before gently placing it into Kurt's hands. "But if you're going to propose to her, do it properly," he teased. "The band of that ring is made from the first ounce of gold that came out of this mine, Mr. Wagner. I can think of no better way to give you my permission than this."

"Sir…I…" Kurt's voice broke and cracked as tears poured down his face. "Thank you," he said finally.

"If anything, _you're _the one who should be thanked," Mr. Pryde told him.

Kurt pocketed the ring and nodded after regaining his composure. "You _did_ get the letter I sent ya, didn't ya?"

"The forgery? Yes, and it worked spectacularly," Mr. Pryde said, his tone triumphant. "And I have suspicion as to who's been behind all this."

"So do I," Kurt replied, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To propose t'Catherine."

"You'll be joining us for dinner, then?" Mr. Pryde asked jovially.

"Count on it," Kurt said. _But before suppertime, I intend to end this. Forever…_

Kurt's boots clomped loudly on the wooden floorboards, and his chest was tight as he nerved himself for what he was about to do. The ring in his pocket seemed to weigh as much as anchor, and Kurt felt beads of sweat gather on his face as he approached Catherine, who was still chatting with her mother outside.

"Would you mind givin' us a moment?" Kurt asked respectfully.

"Of course," Mrs. Pryde said, bustling inside. "I need to start on dinner anyway. You look like you could eat a horse!"

Catherine's mother disappeared into the small kitchen, and Kurt cleared his throat awkwardly as he looked his beloved in the eye.

"Catherine?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"Anything, Kurt," she said, her gaze love-struck.

The mercenary, so hard and cold before, now swallowed his fear and slowly, unsteadily, got down on one knee as his blunt fingers fished the small box from the pocket of his duster.

"Catherine…" Kurt began. "I...I ne'er dared t'believe that there'd be some'un out there fer me, an' I never was convinced that there was folks out there worth trustin' anymore. But…" Kurt swallowed and continued, "Then I found ya lyin' along th'road that day, an'…an' ya showed me that I was _wrong._ I ain't ne'er felt really _happy _until I met _you, _Catherine, an' I…" Kurt's voice broke. "An' I'll ne'er be able t'really repay ya fer that. I…don' ever wanna go back out there, not if'n it means that yer not wid me."

"Catherine," he finished, his voice quietly sincere, "Will ya marry m-ooomph!"

Any further emotional outpouring on Kurt's behalf was cut off when Catherine seized his arm, pulled him upright and kissed him right on the lips.

After a moment's embrace, Kurt realized that he needed to breath and reluctantly broke away.

Catherine's smile was playful. "What took you so long?"

_Epilogue_

_The setting sun cast its blood-red rays through the windows of Boss Platt's personal office as the unscrupulous businessman woke from his nap with a start. The chair that had housed Platt's sleeping bulk creaked ominously as its owner surveyed the pen that had fallen onto the floor, and it was the clatter of its impact that had roused Platt to begin with. _

_The villain went to pick up the writing instrument-_

_-CLICK._

_Something cold and hard pressed against the back of Platt's head. He'd paid off too many outlaws not to know what it was._

"_Deadpool?" Platt asked, his voice trembling._

_The shadowy figure that had stood behind Platt's chair whispered in the fat man's ear in a tone that brought to mind a freezing Arctic wind. "Yer stooge is as dead as 'is name."_

"_Then who…" Platt's eyes widened. "Wagner," he breathed._

_Kurt silently wrapped his finger around the trigger of his revolver. "You tried to hurt Catherine," he said quietly, like a condemning judge. "And the name…is _Nightcrawler…_"_

_BANG!_

A/N: Geez…looks like Platt got what he deserved, huh? XD But before I go any further, I'd like to send a BIG thank you to all of my reviewers! To AmuletSpade, rockster0810, Anahbell, Blanc Expression, Gabry, Caprichoso, Dragoncat, ObsessedwithNightcrawler, Bells1o, Indigo-Night-Wisp, .mess, EvanescentDream93, and nightpwnsjoo, thank you so much for all your feedback and warm reviews! It was and shall continue to be my utmost pleasure to write for you, and I hope you all enjoyed reading this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it! I sincerely hope to see you all at the debut of my Danny Phantom fic, "Shadows of the Past!"

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque


End file.
